


That Middle Road

by nilchance



Category: CW Network RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Bipolar Disorder, Chronic Pain, Dubious ASL, Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Sexual Slavery, Suicidal Ideation, asphasia, despite all this it's a love story, past Jeremy Sisto/Jeffrey Dean Morgan, references to past institutionalization, references to past rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-01 16:17:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 75,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5212484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeremy inherits a friend's bodyslave, Misha, just as his own life is falling apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story accompanies poisontaster's [A Kept Boy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/253311/chapters/393535%22). Where it intersects, I'll mention it in the notes. Thanks!

The sickroom is quiet until Jeremy arrives. Misha spends most of his time in a chair by the bed, where he is undisturbed. His voice rattles around inside his head, trapped, but he holds Master Vincent's hand and moves those long, elegant fingers over lines of poetry. Vincent won't wake, doesn't stir even for beloved voices like Lord Burton's, but Misha likes to think that Vincent's ghost reads what Misha can't say. 

The children leave Misha and Vincent to themselves, and the nurses seem to forget that he's there. They tend to Vincent with the absent practicality one would give a houseplant, and Misha finds himself forgetting small things like food and light. He waits, a growing stillness inside, and comes to love his silence. The thud-rasp of Vincent's machines count the seconds, and then the hours, and the days. 

Which is why it's a visceral shock when someone flings the door open, like pulling the scab off. 

"Jesus Christ," Jeremy declares, "it's awful in here. Somebody turn a light on, huh?"

Misha stares at him. He knows he should take the command as it's given, he knows he's the one being reprimanded for the room's state, but he can't think to turn on the light. He can't move. 

"Here." Jeremy sits on the side of Vincent's bed (on his bed) and reaches over to the lamp. Light pours out across Vincent's face, the tubes and the wires. It's not forgiving; all the lines of Vincent's wry smiles are erased, leaving gauntness in their wake. Vincent looks like what he is: a corpse, an empty shell. 

Jeremy sits back, considering Vincent. His eyes are fox bright, somewhat crazy. He looks like he needs to sleep and to have his clothes ironed. Misha remembers him from Vincent's salons. Quick wit, Vincent said, no sense in him at all. There had been a woman by his side, a bodyslave, his lover. She's not there now. 

"Ah, old man," Jeremy murmurs. Fondness. Regret. 

You're two months behind the rest of the mourners, Misha thinks, but he doesn't say it. Thankfully, none of them expect him to say much. He should get up and fetch tea; Vincent would be ashamed of him for not at least pretending to be courteous. But Vincent is dead, and so Misha sits and watches Jeremy's hand hover above Vincent's face. To touch him like a pet, maybe. Or maybe just tempted to smother him. 

Jeremy finally lets his hand drop. He pulls out a notebook from his shirt pocket, flips it open and pages through it. Misha sees a shadow in the doorway, and the light catches long blond hair. Vincent's daughter.

Suddenly, Misha understands. There will be other visits now. Strangers in the house. He's 16 again and his mother is being hauled out the door, screaming--

Without looking up from his notebook, Jeremy says, "They don't think he's waking up. The estate's been turned over to the children."

I know, Misha thinks, shut up, I've done this before. Don't give me your words.

"You don't talk much," Jeremy says, and glances up. His reading glasses perch on his nose, but Misha would bet money that they're costume. Jeremy Sisto, eccentric, riding the fringe of what's tolerated but mouthing the right words. Useful. Jesus talked with accountants, but so did Pharisees. Misha knows that game well. "You talked before. Vincent taught you things. Philosophy, science, cooking. You're smart, right?"

Vincent had thought so, before his head hit the car window, before he fell against Misha and their blood ran together in the snow. 

Misha lowers his eyelashes and pretends not to understand. It's the role, for now, the idiot dog pining at his master's bedside until he wastes away and dies. If he could think, he could plan, but instead his mind is full of white noise and words he can't force out. Think, Vincent whispers, observe, boy, be my memory, but Misha can't. He can't.

"You're smart," Jeremy says, answering himself. "And I have... I need discretion. Silence. Maybe yours."

Misha glances up at him, trying not to look sardonic. 

Jeremy waves a hand at him, indulgent, negligent. "Which is something you can't help, they say. We'll see. But as it turns out, I need-- well. A bodyslave, a temp, a stand-in, since my girl is indisposed." 

It's... well, beyond being rude, it's bizarre. Master Jeremy isn't exactly low on the societal rungs, and it's unusual to just lose a bodyslave. At Jeremy's level, there would always be another waiting in Escrow. Offers weren't just given like this, master to slave. Is the woman dead, or ill? Pregnant? Misha hasn't heard anything, but he's lost track of the river of information. 

Jeremy is deep in the Empire's numbers. He has to see many households. Misha is nothing, ruined and aging, and so they wouldn't watch what they said. 

Be my ears, Vincent had said their first night together, as Misha undid his overcoat with trembling fingers. My eyes, my fingertips. I would see the storms before they come.

Did Jeremy know what Vincent had taught him? Could he know?

Jeremy's back is to the door, his smile hidden. His eyes betray nothing. "A month of service, and then another position in my house, in my libraries. It's right in the contract. It's the best offer you're going to get." 

Leaning forward, across Vincent's body, Jeremy lays a hand on Misha's face. Misha flinches, because how dare he, in Vincent's own bed, and then Jeremy's touching the scar at his temple. The ugliness of it, pink and still raw, and yet Jeremy explores it almost tenderly as if he sees the nightmares beneath. Misha starts to turn away, but Jeremy makes a shushing noise that stops him. Jeremy strokes the scar, following it down to Misha's jaw, and then to his throat. It's bare as the day Misha was born, without collar for so long now. The touch drags heat into Misha's skin, reviving him. 

Vincent had been old in the beginning of their contract. Misha hadn't, he hadn't even been naked in their bed--

"Misha," Jeremy says. His voice is simple, stripped of pity. "There's nothing for you here. Come with me."


	2. Chapter 2

Jeremy drives them home. It's the first time Misha's been in a car since the accident, but the rest of the day has wrung all emotion from him. He grips his knees and keeps his eyes closed. If Jeremy is kind enough not to mention Misha's limp or the silent watering of his eyes that won't stop, Misha won't think poorly on his lack of a driver.

For most of the trip, Jeremy chatters. Blithe, steady words that don't require an answer: how he took most of Misha's belongings, aside from the ones that the children claimed, which means not many at all. Stories about Vincent. Complaints about the ever-present traffic. There's a strain beneath his levity, a fatigue Misha can almost taste.

After a while, Jeremy turns on the radio. Another surprise: it's not rock or rap, but instrumental music that pours from the car's expensive speakers. Holtz, the Planets. Misha squints an eye open, but Jeremy only stares straight ahead at the sea of brake lights. The traffic is atrocious, as Vincent would say, but that means they won't get up to a killing speed.

"Do you speak ASL?" Jeremy asks suddenly, without looking at Misha. "Has anybody bothered to teach you?"

Yes, there's that edge again, surprising bitterness for a man who owns slave. An abolitionist? Hell, Misha hopes not. He doesn't have it in him anymore to try to run. He was hamstrung early, when they took Sasha and sold him to an older man with hungry eyes and hands. Poor Sasha, only 12, too lost for Vincent to find. Vincent was good to even try.

It's easier to analyze Jeremy's tone than to try to answer. The flaw isn't in his tongue or his hearing, it's in the deep fracture between the accident and everything after. No signal beneath the noise, nothing left to communicate. He's a hollow instrument to be played.

When Jeremy glances at him, sidelong, it's as if he hears. As if he knows. Mouth thinning, he nods and concentrates on the road. There are fine lines gathering at the corner of his eyes, indications of age that weren't present when Misha last saw him. Jeremy's young, still, so much younger than Vincent was. Vincent had wanted a son, more or less, a weapon or a pet. Jeremy will want other things.

Misha shivers, though his face still feels hot from the drag of Jeremy's hand. Even though Jeremy's not looking, he still reaches over and turns up the heat. Misha wants to say thank you, needs to for more reasons than just the temperature, but it locks in his throat. He tips his face down, ashamed.

They pull off the highway, tires thumping down on rougher road. Misha figured Jeremy for a city type, high rise apartment overlooking the Hollywood lights, but the exit leads out into a wilder country. Plenty of space. Nobody to hear a slave scream. Misha concentrates on holding very still, the perfect line of his spine. The back of his neck prickles with cold, and he can't decide if he wants Jeremy to put his hand there.

The turn comes out of nowhere after a sea of open country small ranchers, like something out of a horror movie. Jeremy takes it smoothly, but Misha's nails bite into the back of his own hand until the turn is complete. Then it's down the lopsided path, Jeremy's expensive car taking it better than expected as thin branches whip the windshield and hood. Jeremy's mood seems to darken as they get closer to his home, his idle drumming replaced by a white-knuckled grip.

The house is mission style, beautiful and bigger than a single man could need. There are roses and sage bushes, and Misha feels a twist of homesickness. Someone left the light on for them. Jeremy parks behind a battered pick-up and stares at the house for a moment before plastering on a smile. "Well. Home sweet home, Misha."

Misha tries to smile back and opens the car door, ready to open Jeremy's for him as is right. But Jeremy's already unfolding his tall body from the seat, grabbing Misha's single bag and tossing it over his shoulder. "Hey, Winston!" Jeremy calls out. 

It would be an appropriate summons for a slave, but a small lapdog comes jingling out instead. Winston yawns and circles Jeremy's ankles like he thinks he's a cat before trotting amiably over to Misha. Misha hesitates, unsure if he's supposed to pick the dog up and risk toppling over, but Winston only sniffs his shoes and peers around Misha like he's hiding someone.

"No, buddy, she's not here," Jeremy says cryptically, and snaps his long fingers. "C'mere."

Winston yaps and follows. Jeremy sweeps his arm open, ushering Misha along. In front of him, Misha thinks, a little dazed. He limps hard the first step, trying to remind Jeremy that he'll hold him up, but Jeremy doesn't change expressions. So they go, dog and slave and master, into the open door of the house.

They're met by two people, a blond with a sharp face and a younger brunette with doe eyes. "Hey, fucker," the blond says unceremoniously, a sardonic edge to his voice. "What, you bring home another stray?"

Misha stiffens automatically, uncertain, but Jeremy reacts as if he's cursed at every day. He tosses the blond Misha's duffel. "This is Misha. Misha, Denis and Gina. Denis is my agent in charge of drinking my beer. Gina's the cook. I'm handing you off to them, if that's all right. Headache coming on."

Is he being asked to approve Jeremy's behavior? Misha hesitates, but apparently the question was hypothetical. Jeremy's already headed through the cluttered entry and up the steps, taking them three at a time with Winston jingling after him. A few seconds later, there's a muted 'thump' of a door slamming. Jeremy is as careless with his inanimate property as he is with his slaves.

"Guess he's going up there to brood again," Denis mutters, swinging the bag to the floor, and disappears up the stairs after him.

Gina follows him with her sad eyes, gnawing on her lower lip, then remembers Misha and shakes herself. Her smile is friendly enough. "You hungry?"

Misha nods, more because it's social than because he wants food. In the months he sat shiva beside Vincent, he lost the ability to feel a lot of things, and hunger is among them. He should be concerned for Jeremy, for his own hide, but he only observes. The house is disorganized, dusty, and Jeremy is mourning.

Gina offers him her arm and guides him into the kitchen. Misha's body aches; this is more activity than he's tried in months. He mostly falls into the kitchen chair, scraping it along the floor. Gina doesn't wince or rebuke him, turning to a neat contraption on the counter that looks like a steel tea pot. She grabs a mug from its hook under the cabinet and pours what looks like tea. "Here, it's homeopathic. I was having some myself."

Ah. So it's likely to be almost but not quite entirely unlike tea, then. Vincent's daughter had pushed homeopathic medicine on Vincent once, years ago, and--

Misha tucks his grief away and accepts the mug, inclining his head to say thank you. Gina seems to take his muteness without question, slinging her lean body into a chair across from Misha's own.

"You have to understand," she says all at once, as if the words are jerked out of her. "Jeremy isn't... like this. Not usually. I mean, he's a good man. The best owner I've ever had. He won't hurt you."

Some tension in Misha's stomach uncoils. He nods, holding Gina's eyes, waiting for the rest.

Vincent used to say that Misha had a priest's presence, the kind that made others want to confess. At least he didn't lose that in the crash. There's something else here, a missing piece that he needs to solve the puzzle.

Gina spins her teacup on the table, obviously struggling for words, then sighs. "He hasn't been the same since Marisa tried to kill herself."

Ah. There it is, then. The missing bodyslave, the quickness with which Misha was bought, the funeral quiet of the house. He understands.

Misha raises the cup to his mouth, tasting its bitterness, thinking.


	3. Chapter 3

Jeremy spills two capsules into his palm, careful not to look in the bathroom mirror. Marisa is everywhere, her cluttered perfumes lined up along the sink, her bathrobe on the back of the door, her scent on their sheets. If he looks, he can see the empty cold cream bottle where she hid her smuggled collection of pills. Sleeping aids, painkillers, muscle relaxants, all stolen from the cabinets of Jeremy's clients. _Fuck, baby, wouldn't it have been easier to hang yourself or something?_

_Wouldn't it have been better to just talk to me?_

He takes the pills-- only stimulants for him now, thanks, only the gasoline to keep his motor running through this desert. If he stops for a minute, if he has to think... no. No, he won't do that. Once his throat is clear, he turns away from the mirror and tells Winston, "She's gonna come back."

Winston lifts his chin from his paws, wags once. Jeremy doesn't get the chance to think it's a wag for him, because immediately the bedroom door opens. 

Denis is there, arms crossed, looking belligerent. "So what's with the kid?" 

Misha, right. If Jeremy was a better man, if he was anything like Jeff or like the kind of guy who co-created the Trust should be, he'd have thought of his body-slave first. Misha had to be rattled, dragged from Vincent's deathbed and all, his stuff shoved into one sad duffel bag. He could probably use some direction, or at least some company, to reassure him that he hasn't been delivered into the hands of Caligula. Or Cruise, for that matter. 

But then, isn't the whole point that Jeremy isn't the better man? Gina has Misha. She can babysit until Jeremy stops jittering inside. 

"I could use a drink," Jeremy says. "We still got that whiskey in the underwear drawer, you think? Or did Mar use that to wash the Xanax down?"

"The kid, fuckwit," Denis says, like anybody else might be gentle.

"He's not a kid. He's thirty-something. Which is why I grabbed him before Vincent's useless brats tried to throw him in a meat-grinder." The pills are starting to kick, or maybe it's just the restlessness of this damn room. Jeremy goes to the broad, heavy cabinet beside their (his) bed and jerks the drawer open. It sticks, so he throws his weight behind the next yank. Winston shies away from the noise, so Jeremy grudgingly sits and gathers the poor mutt against his side. "Sorry, buddy. Anyway, I'm surprised Burton didn't snatch Misha up before that. You think they're having money trouble? Or was he just being sentimental? It'd be like him to be sentimental. Expecting Vincent to rise from the dead or something. Hey--"

Because Denis has abandoned his post at the door and is now crowded between Jeremy's knees, squinting at his face. "What the hell are you on?"

"Nothing. Nothing. Caffeine, man, it's fine." When Denis doesn't move, Jeremy gives his shoulder a little shove. More rough reassurance than any expectation that Denis will back off. "Don't worry about it."

"Right." Straightening up, Denis looks at him. "You know, we kinda need you around."

"You could run this place without me. You probably run it better."

Disgusted, Denis shakes his head. "You gonna make me say something girly? Because I think we'd both regret it in the fucking morning. I don't feel like dragging your dumb ass to an ER and explaining to the nurses why you're crashed out and drooling on your shirt."

"I know, I know." Jeremy wants to drag a hand through his hair, rub his eyes, but he can't move his hand away without a plaintive noise from Winston. "I won't. I just. I'll be fine."

Denis eyes him, every inch the skeptic, then grunts. He plunks down on the bed beside Jeremy, his cigarette scent crowding out Marisa's orange blossom ghost. "Suppose you needed a replacement bodyslave. He staying on after Marisa gets back?"

It's a loaded question, not just because it assumes that Marisa is coming back at all. Is Jeremy replacing her? Is Misha staying?

"We need a librarian," Jeremy says. "If Misha could handle Vincent's books, he could handle anything. But yeah. I needed somebody-- people were starting to talk."

And Misha, Misha isn't talking at all. What the hell had Jeremy been thinking? 

Maybe he'd been caught up remembering the Misha he met once, a shadow at Vincent's forgettable unless you looked him in those keen blue eyes. If you did look, though, you knew Misha didn't miss a damn thing. Jeremy could use that; he couldn't watch everywhere, and Jeff was too busy being smitten to be careful. 

Or maybe Jeremy just didn't want to hear too much chatter. Misha is pretty enough, broken down and silent. He fits Jeremy's addled accountant routine; people will be as careless with their secrets as they ever were. From Marisa's sweet little brainless hippie to Misha's silent damaged discount slave. People think the stupidest fucking things about slaves; they slot somewhere in society between pets and children. No-- like barn cats, not to be fed or allowed in the house, only kept around because they're useful, with a mercy bullet coming at the end of their ratting years. 

Jeremy's thoughts are drifting again. He looks down at his hands, twists them together and digs his thumbnail into the frail webbing between his opposite thumb and forefinger, until his skin is livid and his thoughts are clear again. He thinks, stupidly and impulsely, of Marisa's indulgent smile.

He doesn't know who he is without her. His first slave, his first real love. She'd guided his hand all these years, kept him together with her willowy arms. She was (is) his family. 

It's a temporary situation, just until Marisa's 5150 order finishes out and they release her from the hospital. A matter of weeks. And he saved another slave from a fate that would probably be horrible; there's no retirement home for older used-up slaves, after all, no gentle green pastures. Doesn't that absolve Jeremy from having to think too hard about his motives? 

It does. It has to. 

"Anything happen while I'm gone?" Jeremy asks. He doesn't change tone or expression, and Denis has no reason to be wary of him anyway, but Denis shifts into business gear without an ounce of snark. Denis is waiting for the explosion; they all are. Nobody takes their puking, dying bodyslave into rehab without once have some kind of reaction. 

Except that yeah, plenty of owners would do exactly that. Most of Jeremy's clients, for one. His stepfather Richard--

"Dick called," Denis says right on cue, sneering around the word like he wants to spit it out. 

"Bet he did," Jeremy agrees, more mildly than the hard kick of resentment in his chest. "So what did His Highness want this time?"

"Probably an update on this week's sperm count. I don't know, the guy doesn't talk to me. You'd think he doesn't like me."

"Imagine," Jeremy drawls. Reading Denis's expression, he adds, "What else?"

"Uh." Rubbing his scruffy chin, Denis looks down. An old habit; one of Denis's old owners broke his jaw once, and he guards it when he thinks somebody's about to swing at him. Jeremy tries not to take it personally. "Yeah. Roach called."

Of course. Jeremy feels himself twitch a little as every muscle tries to tense at once, waking the icepick throb of yesterday's headache. Winston stirs against him, sensing his mood shift, but settles when Jeremy clumsily strokes his ears. 

It's bad enough to hire a private retainer to babysit his family. It's worse when said retainer actually has to call in. 

"Which one?" Jeremy asks, when he can sound like it doesn't matter. "Meadow or Dad?"

"Meadow," Denis says. "She just needs cash, this time."

Just cash. Not a way out of jail, or Jeremy's political connections, or a plane ticket home; just cash, because she's been riding the thin line between poverty ( _poor enough not to own slaves,_ she says, not meeting his eyes or Marisa's) and slavery, and she slipped again. 

Good thing she has an amoral brother with the financial capital to save her ass. 

"Is she the one who called?" Jeremy asks, then waves off Denis's answer. "Never mind. I don't want to know. Wire her some cash, please."

"'Please,'" Denis mimics, and snorts. He's trying to bait Jeremy out of his rapidly sinking mood. That's probably why he adds, "Anyway, so Morgan called. Wanted to know where you've been."

Jeff. It's supposed to lift Jeremy up, apparently; he has friends around, he could go smoke up with Jeff and Zach and put the weight on his shoulders down for a little while.

Yeah. Except for the fact that Jeff doesn't know Marisa's gone. Jeremy could've called him the night of the OD, should've, except the minutes stretched to hours and he didn't have any words for this. Nothing to explain why Jeremy let this happen to his girl, or how he could replace her like she's disposable. Jeremy has enough people in his life who think he's a complete asshole. 

And maybe he is. He's sitting here with his slave, like they're friends. Denis is forced to be here with him, and even if Jeremy's a kinder master than most, Jeremy can barely stand being trapped in an elevator; he can't imagine being trapped in a life. God, no wonder Marisa-- 

Suddenly the room is too small for him to breathe. He has to go, he has to run run run until he's too tired for this clawing fear. 

Jeremy bolts to his feet, jarring poor Winston, who immediately heads under the bed. He feels guilty for that, but it's just one more thing to add to his tab. 

"Where are you going?" Denis demands, rising with Jeremy to follow him to the door. 

Anywhere. Any place but here. A girl, a bar, a party. Noise to fill his ears and a warm body under his empty hands. There's always somebody else's party. 

"To get Misha," Jeremy says, snagging his jacket with his car keys. "'M going out. Don't wait up."

"You just got here, you prick--"

Denis is still swearing at him as Jeremy closes the bedroom door.


	4. Chapter 4

Misha tries, but his loyalty to Vincent doesn't stop him from coming to point like a bird dog at his master's voice when Jeremy reappears. It hasn't been long enough for his cup of tea to cool in his hands. Gina raises her eyebrows, as if this rushing around is unusual. Worrying. Misha notes that for future reference.

(But then, why? Vincent won't be asking his impression after the party.)

"Hey," Jeremy says, still breathless from thundering down the steps. The glasses are gone; costume, as Misha thought. He nods at Misha, but his question is for Gina. "Can I borrow him for a few hours? Think I might go to Zach's."

Gina blinks. "You just got him here. And dinner--"

"I'll eat it when I get back. I promise." Jeremy's attention darts to Misha, an afterthought. "You're not tired, right? Or hungry? Sorry, should've asked."

Funny that Jeremy should even bother. Misha shakes his head and starts to lever himself upright. It's a laborious process, too easy to notice, but instead of a snide comment about damaged merchandise, Jeremy comes closer and offers Misha a hand up. His fingers are long and graceful. Not Vincent's artist's hands, bent with age and use, spotted and weathered. Misha thinks he might like to see Jeremy hold a pen, or run his fingertips over skin. 

_"You can tell a great deal from a man's handshake," Vincent said, his own hands resting firmly on Misha's shoulders as Misha fumbled his own tie. "Whether he is nervous, or a hard worker. What he may have beneath his nails, if anything. If he tries to grip too tightly, or slip away. If he will attempt to take your hand, given your status. Whatever it is you see in him... do tell me."_

Only Vincent isn't listening anymore. If Misha believed in souls, or in anything aside from the blip of human kindness that's deviant in an unkind world, he'd hope that Vincent had left his body and gone on to blend with other brilliant minds. He'd hope that Vincent wasn't stuck in a shitting, dying, useless body. Except that the thought of Vincent leaving him makes the world feel huge and empty.

Whatever he's feeling, the situation is what it is. Jeremy owns him now, to whatever end.

Carefully, Misha grasps Jeremy's hand. Jeremy hoists him upright in one smooth pull, effortless, and their bodies nearly collide. Misha's breath hiccups in his throat, alarm tangling up with something like desire, but they don't touch. Jeremy lets him go, absently brushing invisible lint off Misha's shoulders. 

"Easy," Jeremy says, and looks for the first time at Misha's bad leg.

Misha wants to shy back, the attention too direct after months of Vincent's family refusing to acknowledge his new limp in the best snooty fashion. He won't call it a disability-- what right does he have to that word, when disabled slaves tended to suffer the most?--, but it makes him damaged goods, and in a new bodyslave... had Vincent's kids told Jeremy what he was getting before he signed the check? 

"That's from the wreck," Jeremy notes, like he doesn't expect an answer. "I don't remember you limping before."

Odd that Jeremy would remember him at all. Misha nods, restricted to one word answers when the situation needs essays. 

Like he's completely forgotten about the rush to leave, distracted by this new revelation, Jeremy directs his too keen attention to Misha's face. "Do you want to see an orthopedist? Did they have you doing PT? Does it hurt? I know, I know," he answers himself, "slow down, I know. Okay. You should see somebody. Do you want to?"

Misha blinks at him. Vincent's daughter had done her duty, she'd paid for Misha to survive, but it hadn't occurred to her to worry about managing the damage. So his leg had healed strange, something to do with the junction of hip and thigh; Misha can feel it click when he walks, and it aches in the night or in the rain. Yes, Misha wants to walk straight again, he wants to be able to run and to sleep a solid night without the pain waking him, but--

But they'd expect words, and he can't get them out. Would that be next? Doctors prying at his mouth and putting him in MRIs, shining lights in his eyes, asking him about his mother? No. He can't. 

It's too complicated for a gesture; Misha is still struggling with what answer Jeremy will expect, when Jeremy takes one look at him and just nods. Nods, as if Misha's silence is completely comprehensible. Misha hasn't been understood in that particular way since the crash stole his voice and his will to explain himself to anyone. He isn't sure if he should hate Jeremy for that, for thinking he could understand or for igniting that small delicious warmth in Misha's chest.

Before he can decide, Jeremy moves away. He moves fast for a man of his height, all that lankiness as deceptive as his costume glasses. Misha wonders about the body beneath Jeremy's (messy enough to look disarming to a prejudiced eye, tailored enough to avoid insult) suit pants and buttoned shirt. Will he be quick as that in bed? What will he want? What will he expect?

Will it hurt?

Misha tucks that secret fear away with other forgotten things. It doesn't matter if it's good; it's not his job to enjoy himself. He should research how to do this new job like he would anything else. Maybe the house library will have something with diagrams.

"Okay," Jeremy says over his shoulder, retrieving his keys, his focus off Misha again, "off to see the Wizard."

Misha follows, and manages a smile when he realizes that Jeremy slows down to let him catch up.   
****  
It doesn't get easier to be in a car, even (especially) with Jeremy; Misha sneaks a grip on the oh-shit handle and doesn't let go, feeling the sweat slip down the small of his back. He wants to undo his tie and shrug out of his jacket, like a man coming home, but there's no home left for him. 

On the other hand, Jeremy seems relieved to be driving away from his house, relaxing by degrees as they cut through the evening traffic. They don't talk, or rather Jeremy doesn't, switching Holtz for something instrumental with acoustic guitars. The music would sink into Misha's bones like lazy sunshine if he wasn't braced for an explosion of fracturing glass and the crumple of metal.

He has to get used to this. Jeremy must travel a lot, might need Misha to drive him, and so... no, he has to carve this weakness out before it gets him sold. Not every slave-owner has Vincent's loyalty. 

After what feels like an eternity but couldn't be longer than twenty minutes, they take an exit off into Pasadena. Jeremy starts drumming on the steering wheel again, which Misha can't quite view charitably given his own nerves. It figures that while Misha's jittering down to his bones in the car, Jeremy's at his most comfortable in motion. Misha peeks over at him, the disarmingly sweet curl of Jeremy's dark hair against his cheek and throat, and then away again. He shouldn't stare. It isn't polite to stare. 

"This isn't business," Jeremy blurts suddenly. "I mean, I'm not going to somebody's house to read over their books. I. I just didn't want to sit around at home. Too quiet, y'know?"

Misha tries to wipe the irony of that from his expression, but Jeremy huffs out a laugh at himself anyway. "Yeah. I guess you don't mind that too much. So you don't talk."

Again the blunt statement of reality; Jeremy must horrify the society he meets. Then again, no, he must keep that under wraps in order to be a successful accountant, which may explain why Jeremy is so colorful in private. To prove to himself that he has that right? That he isn't an owned creature like Misha?

And there Misha goes again, analyzing for a man who isn't even...

"I could've left you home. Sorry. I--" Jeremy takes one hand off the wheel to fumble in his jacket, coming up with a pack of cigarettes. 

Misha foresees a lot of fumbling to light up, which his nerves won't survive, so he reaches out and plucks the cigarettes out of Jeremy's fingers. That could earn him a rebuke or worse, but Jeremy just blinks at him, so Misha goes through the smoker's ritual of pulling out a cigarette and lighting it from the little red hot knob. It's surprisingly soothing to have something to do with his hands, and he knows this from years of filling Vincent's nightly pipe (with tobacco and with marijuana). He passes the cigarette back to Jeremy. 

"Thanks," Jeremy says, some of the brashness swept from his voice. 

Again Misha can't force the necessary words up his throat. He sketches out a quick bow.

Jeremy studies him a second too long, until Misha wants to yelp "eyes on the road!" if he could yelp, then smiles and looks away. "Do you want a pad of paper or something?" Jeremy asks. "Or-- I know basic ASL. Fingerspelling. I worked with Lady Matlin for a while." 

Despite himself, Misha's hand clenches tight on his knee. He knows ASL, enough to communicate silently with house staff to avoid interrupting Vincent's thoughts and enough to make himself heard, but the only thing coiled behind his silence is a wounded animal scream. Rage, pain, despair-- dangerous things for a slave to show a master, darkness that will be bred out of Misha's kind if the masters ever learn how. Hope, a weak green stalk crushed beneath the belly of a rock. 

But Jeremy must know that Vincent consulted with artists both disabled and whole, or he will find out. Better to admit it now. 

Tentatively, Misha raises one hand and signs, _I speak ASL, yes._ He thinks stupidly, suddenly, of Joyce: yes is the most beautiful word in language, and Misha is terrified of it. 

But Jeremy's smile seems genuinely pleased. "That's good." Abruptly, he reaches over the gear shift and covers Misha's hand. Misha twitches, startled, but Jeremy only squeezes once and lets him go. "Okay. So you can tell me to shut up if I start rambling. Oh, there we go, almost missed the turn, dammit, these signs--"

They turn fast, tipping Misha against his car door. He trembles inside. His hand feels burned where Jeremy touched it.

He wants to be burned again.


	5. Chapter 5

Zach is the one who opens the door. 

There's a moment of awkward silence, Zach's eyes going from Jeremy to Misha and back. Then Zach sighs and holds the door open. "Well, shit. You better come in."

"Thanks for the warm and fuzzy reception, Z." Jeremy turns to help Misha up the two steps into Zach and Wendy's house, but Misha only looks blankly at him while he levers himself up by the splintering handrail. With nothing for his hands for do, Jeremy shoves them in his pockets and looks back at Zach. "Wouldn't want to put you out or anything."

"Shut up and get in here, asshole." Zach glances down as an afterthought and, seeing his kid, winces. "Heh. Uh, you didn't hear that from me, okay?"

"Pllbt," the kid says.

"Exactly," Jeremy agrees, and bends down to scoop Ryzer up. The kid smells like a fresh bath but he's inexplicably sticky. The stains'll come out in the wash or it won't, though. No worries. "Hey, kiddo. Nice pajamas."

Ryzer stares over Jeremy's shoulder at Misha. Misha peers back and gives the kid a tentative smile. 

"Hear what?" Wendy calls from the kitchen, "What are you hearing now? Are you--"

"Hey look honey, I found somebody on the porch," Zach says all in a rush, trying to divert her attention. Jeremy smirks at him and gets smacked upside the head for his trouble. It stings for a second but settles the anxiety in Jeremy's stomach; there won't be much pity found here. "Just in time to help with the dishes, and to put the squirt down."

Misha looks a little horrified, but he tries to cover it before Zach sees. With the arm that's not full of Ryzer, Jeremy touches Misha's shoulder. Startling under the touch like a wired colt, Misha stares at him. 

"I'm not working," Jeremy says, pitching his voice low to give them a little privacy. "And so neither are you. Relax. I'll tell you if I need you to do anything, okay?" 

Squinting at him, trying to read him, Misha finally nods and reaches over to extract Jeremy's hair from Ryzer's curious hand. His fingers brush Jeremy's jaw on the way down, a jolt of contact; Misha averts his eyes and takes his hand back.

"Who--" Wendy peeks out of the kitchen, her hair caught up in a rough bun and spewed carrots all over her shirt. She sees Jeremy and makes a rough disgusted noise, but not before Jeremy reads the brief hesitation. She was worried, he waited too long to contact anybody, what if Jeff--

Jeremy forces his panic down, palms it like a stolen wallet or a magician's card. No reason to taste that bright, jittering fear. It wasn't his fault, this time, he hasn't done anything. Marisa is the one in a padded room, not him. Funny, he's in Jeff's shoes now, and they don't fit him at all.

"Well," Wendy says, "well. You hungry?"

God, he loves her for a minute so hard that his heart hurts. Jeremy grins and hoists Ryzer, making the kid squawk and wave. "Nah, thanks. Misha?"

Misha shakes his head and solemnly signs back, _thank you._

There's five words now. Soon Jeremy might not even have to count them out like beggar's coins, hard earned or stolen. 

"Rile the kid up and he's your problem," Zach drawls, looking mild. His hand moves while he talks, without effort, and Jeremy's lucky to catch the signs: _when did he buy you?_

"Three hours ago," Jeremy answers, "and yeah, I know the rules. I'm not riling you, am I, Ry?"

Ryzer holds his arms and legs out. "Fly, Merton!"

'Merton', Christ. Jeremy mutters to Zach, "I hate you," and tells Ryzer louder, "just this once. Whee!"

"Wheeee!" Ryzer chirps back, blissfully enjoying his brief Superman imitation. When it's over, he hangs from Jeremy's hands and looks plaintive. "More?"

"Sorry, kiddo." Jeremy remembers too well getting puked on the last time Ryzer got all the flying he wanted. Putting Ryzer over his shoulder, Jeremy pats his back. "I'll read you a story, though."

"Daddy too?"

"Yeah, me too, runt." Zach touches Wendy's shoulder, and something passes between them in a glance. Envy twists low in Jeremy's gut, but he squashes it. Then Zach hitches a thumb at Misha. "C'mon, dude, you might as well come with the caravan. Misha, right?"

And like that, Misha is accepted. Jeremy's glad for that, and for the fact that Zach won't ask questions in front of Ryzer. 

"Mar?" Ryzer says in Jeremy's ear, curious and little. His fingers catch in the sloppy curls of Jeremy's hair, making him wince. "Mar?"

Jeremy can't breathe to answer; his throat is choked and full of sick heat. He tries not to clutch Ryzer tighter just to have something to hold. 

"Not tonight, baby," Zach answers for him, blessedly, his hand settling into the small of Jeremy's back. "Marisa's not here. How about the elephant book?"

"Zeebas!" Ryzer yells, thrusting his hands up, distracted now. "Zeebas!"

In the end, it's hard to squish three grown men and a toddler into Ryzer's room, but they manage. Misha folds up neatly on the floor by Jeremy's feet, his suit looking ridiculous against the bright circus colors of the walls and bed. His cool fingers encircle Jeremy's ankle, and it's strangely comforting to sit there like he has nothing better to do than reading about zebras on parade. Zach hums and rubs slow circles on Ryzer's belly, until Ryzer stops kicking little boy feet into Jeremy's ribs and starts to drift. In the other room, Jeremy can hear Wendy start the dishwasher. 

This is not his house. This is not his life. He's here with his newly-minted slave because Marisa, because she--

Misha's grip tightens, and Jeremy realizes he stopped reading. He clears his throat and starts the page again. 

By the time the last little zebra catches up with his herd, Ryzer is out for the count. Zach coaxes the spit-soaked corner of a blanket out of Ryzer's mouth, tucks him in tighter, small fatherly things that Jeremy wouldn't have thought Zach had in him as little as two years ago. He sees that and thanks God, or whoever, that he didn't knock Marisa up, because he knows he doesn't have what Zach has. He'd be a lousy father. 

Sitting up, Zach nods to Misha and signs, you sleeping with him?

Jeremy feels mortification curl up in his belly. He shakes his head sharply, before Misha can answer, then signs at Misha, _you don't have to do that. Not your job._

Misha blinks mildly at him, frowning, then signs, _what is my job?_

Jeremy doesn't really have an answer for that. But he knows three hours is too early to have sex with a man who can't technically consent. So he reaches into his jacket pocket and grabs the bottle that's been there, hidden, since the EMT crew took it off Marisa. He doesn't think, doesn't let himself, before shoving the rattling bottle at Misha. 

"Make sure I take these," Jeremy says, whispering to not wake Ryzer. "Even if I don't ask. It's... it's important."

Solemnly, Misha takes the pill bottle and tucks it away in one of his own pockets. Makes it disappear, like a magic trick. 

"C'mon." Jeremy offers Misha a hand up. "There's a guest room, and I left some paperback books. I may be a while."  
****  
They're barely alone before Jeremy's on Zach, backing him up against the door and catching his mouth in a kiss that's more collision than romance. Zach grunts, fisting his hands in Jeremy's hair, cupping his face, opening up to kiss him back. It's messy and it's rough, and Jeremy's fiercely glad he came here. He wedges a hand between them, unbuckling Zach's jeans, getting a huffed laugh in return. Then Zach gets with the program, pushing Jeremy's jacket off his shoulders to join the other clutter on the floor, reaching down to tug Jeremy's belt open and cup him roughly through his slacks. Jeremy hisses, grinding into it, and feels Zach's lazy smirk. 

There's a quiet rap on the door, and Wendy's muffled voice comes through. "You boys think you can stop making out long enough to let me in?"

With a stinging bite to Jeremy's lower lip, Zach pushes him back. Jeremy's hesitant to go; if he backs off, there'll be serious talking, and if there's talking, he thinks he'll unravel like loose thread. But Zach only jerks his head at the tousled bed.

Jeremy goes, stepping out of his slacks and kicking them aside, reaching for the buttons of his shirt.

Pleased, Zach reaches back to let his wife in. No questions. 

Wendy ducks under Zach's arm and nudges the door shut, peeling off her shirt in one smooth motion. There's no bra underneath, her breasts still as full and high as they were before pregnancy. She shucks off her sweatpants and her panties as one. 

"Nice," Zach murmurs, snagging her around the hips and pulling her back against him to kiss her neck. 

Wendy hums and tilts her head to give him access, eyes closing as she smiles. "You better like it, you married it."

Dragging his nails lightly over her belly, Zach grins a feral grin and gives her a little push towards the bed. 

Wendy returns his smile, and for a minute they look like some fucked up version of Bonnie and Clyde. Then Wendy is on the bed, crawling on top of Jeremy like she has liquid for her spine. Jeremy's breath huffs out because it's been a long time, long before Mar and the pills and the crash, and his body reacts on overdrive. He wants to rub off in the curve of her hip; he wants to push her away because she's too close. Her breasts press soft against his chest, the long scruff of her pubic hair grinding against his belly. Wendy kisses him like she's sipping champagne, languid tastes of his mouth. Carefully, reverently, Jeremy reaches back and tugs the elastic band from her hair. It tumbles around them, brushes his cheek. 

He thinks of Marissa. He thinks of her where he left her, the stiff scrubs in washed out blue that doesn't look at all like the sky, the smell of bleach and piss and fear, the blank drugged look in her eyes. He remembers the fingers in his mouth, the taste of latex as some attendant digs between his teeth and his gums, gagging on it--

"Jer," Wendy whispers, cupping his face. Her hands are so small; they aren't slave hands. She strokes his face with her thumbs, her eyes worried. "You okay? Your heart's going like crazy--"

Jeremy sees her remember and start to choke on the word crazy. She blinks; he doesn't. He can't flinch about that shit anymore. So he leans up and kisses her again, biting at her pretty mouth. She lets him, growling, her fingers knotting in his hair. He feels like he's above the bed, like her weight is the only thing holding him still. The drugs, yeah, and also that he hasn't taken his pills in-- what? Days? That shivery dizzy feeling is back in his head, ungrounded, unmoored. 

Wendy squirms on his lap, tipping over on her side and wrestling Jeremy down with her. Her nails rake down his back, a bright burning path, and he has to break away to pant out, "Yeah, yeah, please." It's good, he feels something, he's there. He's in the bed, he's with them, his heart is pounding in his head and in his dick and in the new scores down his spine. "Please--"

Zach curls up along Jeremy from behind. He's surrounded, and between them, he can't drift away. Zach mouths at the back of Jeremy's neck, under the tangle of his hair, and then sets his teeth in. It's good, it's so good, a shudder rippling down Jeremy's spine. He can ground himself in them. 

Like he heard the thought, Zach finagles one arm around Jeremy's body, spreads his hand over Jeremy's heart. If Zach can feel it hammering hard, he doesn't say anything, but then Zach usually doesn't in bed. He's not Jeff, the constant torrent of filthy words ground out against sweaty skin; it's silence, like Zach is still expecting some bastard master to come and find him and take him from this. 

Out of anybody Jeremy knows, he thinks Zach understands most what it's like to have his life destroyed in seconds. One wrong move--

With his other hand, Zach skates lube-slick fingers over Jeremy's hole; he resists automatically, can't turn throat, but Zach presses him into the mattress, bites harder, and sinks two fingers deep. It burns, and Jeremy hisses softly, tilting his head back to bump Zach's; Wendy watches, her eyes bright in the semi-darkness, and doesn't murmur comfort. What she does is twist his nipple between her nimble fingers, lighting him up inside. He makes a sound like some kind of dying animal, and it's not the sex; he wishes it was. 

Wendy starts to throw her leg over his, starts to let him push inside her, but he snares her by the hips before she can. She raises her eyebrows at him, and he says, "That's not-- come up here." And then she smiles, her eyes crinkling up at the corners. 

It can't be slow. It has to be messy and hot and as fast as his pulse. He presses his thumb into the hollow of her hipbone as he helps her scoot up, resting her back against the headboard, her thighs pressed together until he gentles them apart. Then he can see her, already shining with wet, the ripe woman scent that unlocks his spine. 

Zach loosens his grip on Jeremy's nape and nuzzles instead, humming like a big satisfied cat. His fingers press in and up, seeking, until pleasure jerks through Jeremy like a shot. Then he can feel Zach grin. Elbowing him in retaliation, Jeremy squirms onto his belly, rutting against the folds of their sheets still warm from Wendy's body. Their bed smells like sleep and home, used until the cotton surrenders and becomes soft. His head swims briefly as he rolls over; he squeezes his eyes shut and rubs his cheek against Wendy's thigh, following it up until she opens and he can taste. Slow, at first, to hear her breath shudder out and quicken for him. Deeper, still teasing, working her up. Wendy's fingers sink into his hair, pressing him close, her shallow breaths breaking on a moan. She's drenching his chin, his face.

Then Zach's hands are on him, pushing at the back of Jeremy's thighs until he gets the message and kneels up. It nearly hurts to give up grinding against the sheets; he's harder than he thought, already throbbing just from feeling Wendy start to shake for him. But that's not enough, Zach pushes again, this time pressing Jeremy's legs apart. Making him open. Jeremy grinds out a sound, 'no' turning into something like 'yes' when he wasn't looking. Zach does something dirty, something quick that makes Jeremy's brain flare white inside his head, and he goes where Zach pushes. It's a good angle, pressing Zach's fingers just right, and Jeremy whimpers into Wendy. She growls, combing through his hair, guiding his mouth where she wants him. That keeps him from another embarrassing noise when Zach slides his fingers out. 

The rip of the condom packet, another squelch of slick. Zach's thighs press against Jeremy's, a line of heat. He feels drugged stupid on Wendy's taste, the way she's swollen under his mouth, the tremble of her legs against his shoulders. Then Zach opens him up, presses his slow and ruthless way in, and Jeremy slams back hard into his body, onto the bed. He's big, an insistent burning slide; Jeremy pants out, "fuck oh god, fuck," nearly slurring around the words, feeling his dick spurt pre-come onto their sheets. 

Zach hums again, the sound uneven but definitely smug, one lazy hand cupping Jeremy's hip. He's in, sunk deep and good, and Jeremy feels like purring himself. It must make him falter, because Wendy whines a little and grinds against his face, which is the dirtiest and the best. He licks at her, teasing short licks just where she likes it, almost right against her swollen clit. Wendy gasps in a hard breath, digging her nails into his scalp and tensing like she's electrocuted, right there on the edge, right there, and Jeremy sucks her almost gently into his mouth. Wendy barely swallows a sharp high noise, jolting and shuddering apart under him, twitching as he suckles at her. "Fuck him," she gasps, "oh--"

And that, that has Zach easing out like Jeremy's whole body isn't trying to keep him in, snagging over Jeremy's prostate, Zach's hand holding him in place as he tries to fuck himself. Slow, sinking back in, the burn of friction and muscles that haven't done this in too long, the bright hot fist of pleasure. Jeremy can't suck Wendy anymore, has to press his face against her thigh to keep quiet as Zach fucks him slow and deep. Spread open and pinned down, unable to grind against the bed and bring himself off. Taking it, god, he's burning up. 

Zach makes a tearing deep noise and drops onto Jeremy, reaches around him to take hold of his cock, strips it hard. No holding out against that and the slower drive of him inside, surrounding Jeremy, swallowing him up; coming is like being punched, doubling him over, making him blind. He feels Zach grab him by the hips and rut into him, jolting him back, getting off inside him with a shuddering sigh. 

Jeremy sinks into the satisfied scent of Wendy, the slim padding of her inner thigh. If he bolts fast enough, there'll be no talking, but Zach nailed the bones out of his legs. His thundering pulse is starting to come down, dragged by the weight of... how many days has it been since he slept? He doesn't remember. 

Slipping out of him, Zach slaps his flank and wrestles him back on his side. Jeremy blinks slowly, smiles, and can see Zach relax a little. "Idiot," Zach says fondly, and jerks the comforter out from under Jeremy's legs so he can toss it over him. "Be right back. Tossing the raincoat."

"Mm," Jeremy says, trying to find words and tripping over his own tongue. His mouth feels bruised. 

Wendy touches his lips, and he sucks her fingertips, wringing the last shiver from her body. With a hearty sigh, she squirms down to fling an arm and a leg over him, trying to keep him there. As soon as she thinks she has him properly pinned, she nudges her head under his chin. Her voice is small against his throat. "Marisa?"

His heart hurts from all this racing. He's so tired. Miles to go before he sleeps; his dad used to love that poem. Miles to go in the wrong direction, out into the desert with the hermits and the saints, out where he can't do any good and he can't hear the slaves he's not saving. 

Like Jeremy saved Marisa. 

"She's sick," Jeremy says into Wendy's hair. "She-- she took pills. Too many pills."

The bed sinks under Zach's weight, and then he curls behind Jeremy. Nudges Jeremy's shoulder with his too-sharp chin, a gesture that says he's listening if Jeremy wants to spill his guts. Zach doesn't talk about things that hurt; he's got scars and nightmares, but he keeps them to himself, slinking out of bed after midnight to sit on the back porch with his guitar. Zach gets that talking about this shit, it doesn't do anything but make noise. 

Wendy, though. Wendy knows Cate. Sees her sometimes, about her history, about Zach and the baby. She thinks it helps. So she asks, "On purpose?"

"Ha. No. She was planning. She..." Jeremy wets his lips, bites the lower one hard. "There was a note."

"Aw, Jer," Wendy murmurs, and squeezes him. She hugs strong, rib-cracking, but Jeremy can't feel it. "I'm sorry. You couldn't have known--"

"You know how many of us kill ourselves?" Jeremy feels her wince, but doesn't stop the trip of words from his mouth. Halting, strange, like hearing his own voice on the answering machine. "Bipolar people? One in four. Not counting slaves. So, so okay, if she didn't and I didn't, who does? The guy I sat next to in group? I mean, the odds--"

"Jer." Zach's voice is final, dragging Jeremy back like a leash. "That's not gonna happen."

"You don't know that."

"I know you. That won't happen." Shaking him a little in place, Zach says, "Cut the accountant statistical bullshit. You've got people. You're not gonna-- we won't let you." 

"I didn't let Mar."

"She's alive," Wendy says, suddenly fierce. She pulls back enough to glare at him. "She's getting medicine and what she needs. Because of you, dumbass, you think most masters would pay for that?"

"So that's something I deserve a gold fucking star for? Being a good master?"

"No, you know that's not what I think. You know that." Wendy doesn't look at Zach. "I'm saying, she's being taken care of. Who's looking out for you?"

 _Why bother?_ whispers that seductive voice that's always there, sometimes louder than others, never louder than now. _Why stop it? You're better when you're manic, sexier and stronger and smarter than anyone. You can stay there, you hate the pills, forget them, flush them, fall back and it'll catch you, this disease always catches you._

From inside Jeremy's discarded slacks, a cell phone rings. Jeremy pushes upright, out of their arms. His body feels slow, aching to stay where it is. "I should get this."

Wendy gives him a searching look. 

"It's just business," Jeremy says, protesting what she doesn't say, untangling himself from the sheets. "Don't give me that look, it's fine. I--" Opening the phone with a click, Jeremy answers, "yeah, hello?"

"Master Sisto." The woman on the other end sounds like she's holding onto formality with both hands, her voice clogged with tears. "I just... you were friends with my father?"

Recognition clicks in like a shot. Jeremy straightens up, phone in hand. Can't feel tired anymore. You were friends with my father. Oh, god. "Yeah. What happened?"

She tells him. After a few minutes, Jeremy gently closes the phone and stands very still. It feels like his skull is reverberating. 

"Jer?" Zach is the one to slip an arm around him. "Everything cool?"

"No," Jeremy says faintly. "Vincent is dead."


	6. Chapter 6

Vincent's body overwhelms the metal slab. The last month has eaten away at him, but sheer height makes him dominate the chilly room. If Misha concentrates, he can imagine the rise and fall of Vincent's breathing.

A lifetime ago, Vincent signed several important papers to assure that Misha would be the one to prepare his body. It's meant to be a kindness, even if it means that Vincent is last touched by familiar hands. But it doesn't feel like kindness now, as Misha stands over him and tries to remember what to do.

The last day is an endless gray smear in his mind of phone calls and car rides and hasty fittings. He knows people have been generous to him, but he can't think of their names or what they've done. He only knows that he's standing here in a borrowed suit, that he ate an hour ago, and that Jeremy hasn't left him for a second until the mortuary doors swung closed between them.

From one master's hands to another's. It seems right. Misha can't even think of why he shouldn't accept it anymore. He picks up the folded, crisply ironed clothes and begins. 

_"It made sense in the beginning, you know."_

_Misha looks up from turning the sheets down. It's that time of year, Vincent's mood thinning and waning like the moon until there's only darkness. Too much wine, too much bad poetry. Misha isn't stupid, he doesn't miss the date of Vincent's anniversary, and he knows better than to say anything about it. Vincent prefers to nurse his scotch and his wounds in quiet._

_"What did, the poem? I hate it when that happens." Misha thumps the bed. "Come to bed, old man, you're getting sentimental."_

_The gentle prod doesn't make Vincent smile; Misha's stomach coils tight. He doesn't expect violence, he knows he's lucky in that, but watching Vincent retreat further into brooding is just as bad. That'd mean days of boredom as Vincent paced the library, refusing to go anywhere, requiring a damn three hour debate before he'd eat breakfast. And he loves Vincent, even if he wants to tear the veil of privilege down from around the old man's eyes. An anniversary, a grief that's old as decades? Fuck, there are slaves out there being trained and used and broken. Misha's mother and brother are dead. It makes it hard to sympathize._

_"Slavery." Vincent doesn't turn from his study of the gardens below his window, turning and turning his wine glass. "It seemed so reasonable. So righteous. There are men who need to be guided in order to grow true; there were children starving."_

_Misha finds his fingers gripping the comforter too tightly. He looks away from Vincent's silhouette, smoothing down the creases left by his fists. "Vincent, you don't have to explain--"_

_"It's hard to understand if you didn't live it. There were so many sick, so many, and we thought we knew what was best." Vincent huffs out a humorless laugh. "Well. I did. Bess, she never believed it. She was so principled. College educated, of course, and so... so very good. She fought with me for hours about it. Threw me out of my own bed. I told her, 'these people are starving, would you have them die for your principles?' And she told me, 'better that they die, then, if they die free.'"_

_Misha thinks of Sasha's small hand in his own, and he can't say anything. Dead is dead. Death has nothing to do with freedom._

_"It killed her, in the end. Having slaves. Because of course we needed one, of course we grew used to being served. She would watch her young attendant work, and she would think. And one day, she requested a blade for shaving, and some privacy in the bath." Vincent's voice heaves once, a dry sob that he swallows. "She couldn't. She."_

_The hot stone burning in Misha's throat, the rage that never quiets down, doesn't stop him from going to Vincent. From embracing him, Vincent's body stiff against his own. It's wrong to see Vincent weep, an axis tilting between them to upset the whole world. It's wrong for him to comfort his master like this. And yet there's nothing else to do._

_"It is unkind to us all," Vincent whispers finally. "I... I want you to know. And I am so very sorry."_

_"Shh," Misha whispers, and rests his forehead against Vincent's back. "Shh. Just come to bed."_

Vincent is dressed like a doll, his long limbs dragged resisting into the funeral suit. His body is not ready to go, and his mind has moved on somewhere else. And Misha, Misha does what he always has. What has to be done. He straightens the lines of Vincent's jacket, arranges his tie to its sharpest angle, combs Vincent's thinning silver hair, fastens his cufflinks. When his mind drifts on the familiarity, he snaps it back with this will never come again. He takes his time and, before there is nothing left to do, he eases free the clunky ring from Vincent's finger. Vincent has been stripped of the expensive jewelry, and the ring... it's all Misha has.

There are no tears inside him, only a deepening silence.

****

Vincent would have hated the ceremony. It's poorly planned and full of prattling by people that Vincent couldn't stand. They all huddle under a tent hastily erected beside the open grave. The sky is morbid gray and threatens rain, wind snapping by to topple hats and ruin hairstyles. Misha kneels on his cushion, his knee screaming agony and wonders if the errant wind is Vincent's last laugh.

Lord Burton came from his hermit's cave; he looks like he was slapped together from paper mache, and the hollows under his eyes have hollows. If he wasn't propped up on either side by his wife and his bodyslave, he'd fall into the grave. Honestly, he looks worse than Vincent's own kin, but then he probably took the news harder. Tim doesn't shed tears, which Misha thinks Vincent would demand. _Not in front of these people, darling boy. They'll eat you alive._ It'd be funny on any other day to watch the beautiful and rich squirm uncomfortably around Lord Burton's entourage, trying not to stare at his bodyslave's half-ruined face or at the giant looming gauntly over Tim's shoulder like a chess knight over pawns.

Jeremy looks miserable, hunched up in his sloppy suit, trying to look like he's paying attention. His knee touches Misha from time to time, nudging Misha out of his fugue.

Someone asks Lord Burton if he has anything to say. He gives them a withering look from under his wild hair and glances at Misha, like _can you believe this bullshit?_ , but whatever he sees in Misha's expression makes him look away.

Misha blinks, and time has slid by. People rise and toss flowers onto the closed coffin lid. The ceremony is over. He doesn't remember a word. 

The tent empties except for the family and Lord Burton's people. It's Misha's time to get up and walk away. It's his duty as a slave to smooth over the rough edges of the moment before anyone becomes uncomfortable, or bleeds, or feels pain. He has to think of Jeremy, or the children; he is property, and property doesn't grieve.

He can't move. It hurts to breathe, a widening ache inside his chest that threatens to choke its way up his throat. He'll break his silence, he'll curl up on this damp ground and just keen until they take him away--

Jeremy grabs his shoulder and steadies him. Spreading his hand on Misha's back, he rubs briskly like he wants to bring the blood to a numbed limb. He bends until his lips are by Misha's ear, his voice as rough and as necessary as his touch. "You need to get out of here?"

Misha gulps air and puts his head down so he can't see them lower the casket. He hears it, though, the wheel spinning and the mechanical whine slowly muffled by the ground.

In a moment, silence.

Misha doesn't know how long he hangs there, Jeremy holding him up, until he sees worn boots step into his line of sight. Someone touches the back of his head, a halting affection like the person has to translate every action from his native tongue, and Jeremy tenses defensively.

"Misha," Lord Burton says. "Uh. We're here to bring you home."


	7. Chapter 7

"And he just throws that out there, 'we're taking you home', like Misha's a prom date ditched at midnight. Or, or like he's an heirloom gravy boat!" Jeremy flails his hands, so outraged words can't contain it, and nearly upsets his coffee mug. 

Denis clamps a hand over its rim, saving the papers on Jeremy's desk. "Easy, tiger. So you're fighting it?"

"You're goddamn right I'm fighting it." Jeremy scrubs a tired hand over his face. "We're meeting tomorrow, on their turf. Gives me time to dig up the papers Vincent's heirs signed and all the legal precedents for our case. And for Misha to get some sleep. He's in his room, sacked out."

"That's a lot of effort for a temporary slave, Jer." When Jeremy lowers his hand and glares, Denis shrugs. "I'm just saying. He's here until Marisa gets back, and then what? Organizing the library. A job that might take six months."

"So I'll get more books." 

"Huh," Denis says, infusing the syllable with a language's worth of meaning. 

"What?" Irritated now, Jeremy takes his coffee back. " _What?_ "

"You're never here. You don't use the slaves you have." Denis reaches into his jeans pocket, withdraws a battered pack of cigarettes, and begins to absently pack them as he speaks. "Burton's a freak, with a band of freaks and fuckups. Misha knows him. Here, he's a mute gimp with a sob story. With Burton, he's just one of the gang."

For a long few seconds, Jeremy stares at Denis through narrowed eyes and tries to quell the feeling in his gut, that feeling like he's bleeding to death through a small cut. "Yeah, and I'm a headcase. Doesn't that count for anything?"

Unperturbed, Denis knocks free a couple cigarettes. He offers Jeremy one, holding it between his scarred knuckles. "Does he know you're a headcase?"

Jeremy doesn't answer, putting the cigarette in his mouth and sucking fiercely on the filter. 

"Ah," Denis says, raising his eyebrows. "Well, shit. You told him that. You already told him that?"

"Yeah," Jeremy mutters around the cigarette. "He's got my meds."

"Huh." Studying him, Denis smirks. "You're keen on the little bastard."

"Shut up. He needed something to do. He's sad."

"You do like them pretty and fucked in the head."

"Eat my dick." Tucking the cigarette behind his ear, Jeremy gets up from his desk chair. "Where's Winston? Think I might take him out for a walk." 

"I dunno. Not my turn to fucking watch him." Denis steals the chair and puts his feet up. "I think he might be in with the kid. Warm bed and all that, since you're not gonna be sleeping tonight. You planning to eat today, by the way?"

"Yeah, maybe. I don't know." Jeremy frowns. "Did he eat at all?"

"Not that I saw."

"Fuck." Dragging a hand through his hair, Jeremy dislodges the cigarette. "Fuck. I should--"

The nice thing about Denis, one of the few, is that Jeremy never has to worry about completing his sentences. Waving him off, Denis digs in to Jeremy's abandoned cup of coffee. 

Jeremy treads down the hall, his legs feeling like lead. More coffee, he thinks to himself. 

Misha's bedroom is one of the nicest in the house, wood floors and high ceilings, angled for natural light. That doesn't matter now, though, in the late night with all the lights turned off. The duffel bag that carries Misha's life is untouched, shoved against the bed like a small animal seeking comfort. There's a lump in the bed that doesn't stir as Jeremy steps over the threshold. 

"Hey," Jeremy murmurs. "Um. You okay? You hungry?" _I'm sorry I forgot to feed you, I'm sorry your master died, I'm sorry I'm a lousy owner and that you didn't end up with Jeff._ "I just. I wanted to check on you."

Misha is curled up small on the bed, still in his funeral suit and his shiny shoes. Winston's curled up behind Misha's bent knees, his chin resting on Misha's thigh, presiding like a furry Buddha. As Jeremy gets closer, he can hear the hitch and drag of Misha's breath. Then: the animal whimper through clenched teeth, as loud in the quiet as any funeral keening.

Jeremy doesn't think, just lifts Winston clear and climbs on the bed. There's little room on the mattress for two men, and Jeremy's elbow knocks against the wall as he spoons in against Misha's back. Misha doesn't move from his tight curl as the mattress bends, his breath snuffling out, his eyes squinching tighter closed. 

Slow, slow, Jeremy presses his hands against Misha's cold skin and begins to knead. Misha feels like stone under his hands, unyielding, a statue of grief. 

"When I got out of the hospital," Jeremy says, pitching his voice low for the two of them, "I was alone. I didn't want anybody to pick me up. I was angry with everyone I knew. I was ashamed. So I walked out of that place in the clothes I went in with, and I went to this hotel across the street. Real fancy place. Everybody looked at me funny, but hell, I had credit. They wanted to know where my bodyslave was. I told them she was out on a spa day. You believe that? Well. They did. I was always good at lying.

"So I'm in this place, right, and I decide I'm going to do everything I couldn't for the last month. I showered so hot and so long that I swear the wallpaper started to peel from the steam, and my hair curled so tight I almost couldn't comb it. I laid on the bed and I watched porn, even though I was too fucked up to get off-- sorry. And I ordered in food. When they needed to come in to turn down the bed, I just walked around the city. Didn't know where I was going. Just walking past all these beautiful people, these stores full of clothes, these tourists. And I thought about offing myself. Because, y'know, that's the thing with meds: when they bring you up a little, you've got just enough in you to finish it. And the world was beautiful like I'd never seen it before. I mean, the sunsets...

"Anyway. It must've been three days. I'd been taking my pills, even though I wanted to end it, because I couldn't think of anything else to do. But that morning-- it was a Thursday-- I heard this song on the radio, this song that used to be our song, me and this guy, and I thought: this is it. This is God, telling me it's okay. So I left the hotel early, and I walked to this bridge over a highway. I'd walked over it before, or driven under it, a thousand times. I knew that bridge. And I went there, and I climbed up on the rail, and just before I fall forward into traffic and kill some mother in a minivan like a selfish prick, I hear this noise. I look down. And there's this box of puppies sitting next to some homeless guy who was trying to sell them, I guess, with this puppy whining up at me. And I look at this dog, and this dog looks at me, and I... well, I can't do it. I can't think that this is the last dog I'll ever look at. So I climb down and I pay the dude for a puppy, and I take my dog home. Winston. And I never see that dude with the box of puppies again." 

Misha yields under his hands as he talks, uncurling slowly from his grieving knot. His body is sleek and warm beneath his suit; Jeremy feels himself respond and hates it, angling his hips so Misha doesn't have to deal with it. When Jeremy finishes his stupid, rambling story, Misha's face is streaked wet and his mouth is slack, childishly exhausted. 

"It's not a very good story," Jeremy murmurs, and rests his cheek on Misha's spiky hair. "But I think... I think you never know when something's going to save you."

Misha gives a hitching sigh and turns his head to look at Jeremy. His eyes are very blue. He doesn't say anything, his hands curled around a tarnished silver ring, but he reaches down and pets Winston's head. Winston wags. 

"You're still alive, Misha. So you have to eat." Rubbing his open hand down Misha's arm, Jeremy offers hopefully, "I'll eat with you. And then you can come and crash with me. You shouldn't-- I mean, I wouldn't want to be alone right now if I were you."

Blinking his too-wide eyes, Misha palms the ring and signs shakily, _You'll sleep?_

Despite the fact that he had no intention of sleeping tonight, Jeremy finds himself saying, "Yes."

 _Okay,_ Misha signs, and swipes his sleeve over his wet face. _Okay._


	8. Chapter 8

"Oh, man," Jeremy mutters, "you have got to be kidding."

Misha tilts his head, a silent question, and continues filling out a pair of pajamas like nobody's business. They're linen or something, pale blue with darker piping, pressed and tasteful. If formal pajamas existed, these would be it. And here Jeremy is, in his stained undershirt that he'd planned to take off and his crumpled boxers. No pajamas. Hell, no pajamas in his house, period. Nobody Jeremy knows even wears pajamas, unless he maybe counts Ryzer. 

This is obviously some undescribed level of hell. 

"Nothing," Jeremy tells Misha, waving a hand. "Um. Are you okay to climb in, with your knee and all?"

That earns him a sour look and a quirked eyebrow, as Misha tugs the (newly changed) sheets down. Misha sits on the edge of the bed, swings his good leg up, and uses his hands to lift the bad leg and straighten it out. Only a wince and the awkward crook of Misha's knee says he's's knee says he's not perfect. 

Hell. He looks perfect. 

Squashing that thought, Jeremy says, "You proved me wrong."

Misha nods smugly. Then he hesitates, and tucks his fingers under Jeremy's side of the comforter. With his free hand he signs, _Should I turn this down?_

"No, hell no, I can do that." Now it's Jeremy's turn to falter; there's a stranger on Marisa's side of the bed, a damaged grieving slave in pajamas of all fucking things. This isn't a good idea. But good ideas aren't his style. The expectant press of Winston's paw on the top of his foot saves the moment from stretching into awkwardness. Jeremy bends down and scoops Winston up, dropping him onto the bed and following him down before he can overthink. "Here, buddy. No licking faces or feet before dawn, okay?" 

Wagging once, Winston circles a few times before curling up tight as a cat and plunking his chin down on Misha. With the reverent look of a new Winston convert, Misha rubs Winston's ear between his fingers. 

"He likes you," Jeremy says, to fill up the quiet. 

Misha gives a tired smile, probably worn out from the funeral and from the late meal. Jeremy's fingers itch to push the shaggy dark hair out of Misha's face; instead, he flips out the light. In the dark, he firmly tucks his hands under the pillow, flopping down with a grunt and closing his eyes. The meds (which Misha gravely handed over during the meal) are digging their fingers into Jeremy's brain, weighing him down to the bottom of a silty river. 

Jeremy's drifting, half-gone, when he feels the warm press of Misha's body against him. It yanks him straight out of sleep, adrenaline jolting clear through him, and he pulls back so hard he hits the edge of the bed; his mouth is running already, "whoa, whoa, what?"

Craning his head to look back at Jeremy, Misha frowns and signs, _What?_

"What?" With a good handful of his sheets, Jeremy slithers back into bed, careful to keep a good distance between their bodies. "Um. You know you don't have to have sex with me, right? I'm a big fan of consent, see, and it's hard with you just being bought and Vincent, and. And. I don't really think it's a good idea. No offense to you, because you're gorgeous and we could work around the knee but-- I should shut up."

Misha just looks at him, tired and rumpled and mild, then signs, _I slept with Vincent. I didn't fuck him._

The signs for 'sleep together' and 'sex' are different, refreshingly clear against the spoken English that's failing Jeremy utterly. He always preferred numbers to language. 

So that, that saves Jeremy from trying to create a Powerpoint presentation on consent and why it's good, which is one up on what Zach says Jeff is dealing with (and why does this always come back to Jeff?), but... Jeremy almost asks "then why the spooning?" before realization glues his mouth shut. 

Misha is lonely. Misha is grieving for the man who slept with him every night for the last twenty-some years, and for his whole broken life. He's asking, in his own strange way, for comfort. 

And it's okay. It's okay to curl against him and think of Marisa in the dark, because Misha will be thinking of Vincent. It's still being strong for someone. 

"Okay," Jeremy stretches his body out, pretending that he's not still jittering inside from adrenaline. Holding his arm out, he says, "C'mere."

Misha doesn't hesitate or rationalize; he smooshes back in the curve of Jeremy's body and loops his arm around Jeremy's, urging Jeremy to hold him. He is denser than Marisa, lean muscle over bone without the grace of softer breast or belly. He is warm, and close, and he smells gently of Jeremy's mint shampoo with whatever cedar chest Vincent packed Misha's pajamas. 

Jeremy rests his forehead against Misha's shoulder and inhales. He holds his breath like he can keep this warm feeling inside.


	9. Chapter 9

After months of the ventilator and the monitor, Jeremy's bedroom is eerily quiet. Misha can hear every creak of the house settling around them, every breath that Jeremy takes. He's no easy sleeper, twitching and struggling, mumbling into Misha's shoulders, but the sling of his heavy arm never strays. It reminds Misha too much of their crowded bed in Massachusetts, Sasha's little body sweating and kicking him, his mother cradling both of them in her skinny arm and her long leg like someone was coming to take them. 

She was right about that, in the end. Misha tries not to think about it much. 

Instead he thinks about the clues that he's been given to this current puzzle: the pills, Marisa's absence, the story Jeremy whispered to him about institutionalization and suicide. Too many secrets. Depression, maybe, some kind of mood disorder. Jeremy doesn't seem like the schizophrenia type. Maybe it should trouble Misha that his new master is bugfuck crazy, but hell, Vincent wasn't a statesman for sanity himself. 

(A stab of pain deep in his chest like a heart attack, a gasping panicky grief because Vincent is gone-- he won't think about it, he won't go back there again.)

But it's a comfort to have Jeremy curled tight against his back, the rhythm of his breathing a way to set pace for Misha's own. He is physical in a way that Vincent never was, all heat and motion, and Misha feels embarrassingly aware of him. Of Jeremy's bare skin, the dark hair on his arms, the prayer beads of his knuckles and his wristbone, the single simple band of copper on his left ring finger. Of his restless sleep and the almost-words that he mumbles in his rough dark voice. 

_You know you don't have to have sex with me, right?_

No, Misha hadn't known that. Why would he, when most owners would demand that he be ready for use right after the funeral? What naive world was Jeremy living in, that he'd think Misha would expect to be treated like a person instead of a slave? Especially given that in-- Misha glances at the electric red numbers of the alarm clock-- three hours, they'd be meeting Lord Burton to decide Misha's fate like an armchair or an abandoned pet cat.

Ha, deciding. Right. Misha's going to change hands again. He's not sure why Jeremy tried to hold out this long, aside from liberal guilt. But Lord Burton will push and keep pushing, shaking Jeremy down like a dog with a bone, and that'll be it. 

It's not that Misha doesn't trust Lord Burton will look out for him; Tim loves (loved, damn) Vincent with a kind of awed devotion and will protect Misha like a souvenir, but... but the idea of travelling the roads of the Empire in a caravan of trailers with twenty-some people makes Misha's head ache. Too much driving, for one thing. And how many would know ASL? And who would take care of Jeremy until his Marisa comes back? If she comes back? There are plenty of people keeping Tim and his wife off of the railings of bridges.

He can't control any of this, a futile frustration squeezing Misha like God's fist. There'll be no sleeping around it, no quieting his mind with slow steady breaths. 

_Wait,_ Vincent whispers in his mind, _watch._

Three hours. 

He lingers awake, a referee for Jeremy's fights in his sleep. No surprise when Jeremy wakes before the alarm, easing away from Misha with a caution that makes Misha uncharitably want to laugh. Jeremy pads across the bedroom to turn off the alarm and disappear into the master bathroom. Vincent would always be very careful to maintain his own privacy, even with Misha attached to his hip and helping him into his pants every morning; Jeremy leaves the bathroom door wide open, sparing nothing.

Intimate as lovers. 

Jeremy doesn't want him. Is that loyalty to Wendy and Zach? No, Misha would imagine they'd be living together and caring for the child if it was an exclusive arrangement. So then what did that say about Misha, that he'd been found unworthy to do the only thing a bodyslave is good for?

Hell, it's as if he wishes that Jeremy used him. Raped him, if one ignored the polite vocabulary surrounding slavery. It's no compliment to be somebody's convenient hole. But he's not even... he's never going to be touched except as some kind of eunuch. A breathing body pillow. A hairless cat. 

Vincent never used him, not even once, but Misha isn't blind; he's seen enough of the glittering upper class world to understand that sex is a high form of currency. People sell themselves, kill or die for their lovers, and it's always been an intellectual curiosity that Misha can't understand. A field of study that's not his own. His mother explained hormones over Misha's first sticky set of sheets, of course, but she'd seemed obliquely embarrassed (for all her liberal views) and he'd avoided lingering on the subject. He could have asked Vincent for permission to masturbate or to find friendly company, but honestly, how mortifying. 

But Jeremy doesn't want him. Lord Burton has a wife and two bodyslaves to take care of those needs. Whichever way this goes, Misha will never quite understand except for one small taste: Jeremy's hand on his throat, Jeremy's eyes searching his eyes, the unknown tug of desire deep in his belly. 

Whichever way this goes, he'll be alone.

The shower starts. Misha stays very still, memorizing every sound and scent, the whisper of detergent and perfume that must be Marisa's. If he doesn't move, no one can make him go. Childish games that he's outgrown by now, but he still holds his breath and closes his eyes like he's still counting the seconds between lightning and thunder, waiting for the crash. 

**** 

Here they are, deciding Misha's fate, and the destination is as ignoble as possible: a trailer park. Early morning, dawn's pink light slanting over the horizon, is made ugly by the bark of dogs and the low-down smell of the sanitary pump. 

It seems Jeremy is prepared for war, judging from his expression and the leather binder tucked against his body, and he's knocked back when Helena answers the door in a bathrobe. 

Misha knows Helena and he should've been expecting that kind of volley. She runs with scissors. 

"Morning, love," she chirps, running a hand through her messy dark hair. The bathrobe gapes, baring a long stripe of her naked torso; to Jeremy's credit, his eyes dart hastily away to give her some privacy. Is he guarding Helena's dignity, or is he thinking of his Marisa? Misha doesn't know him well enough to guess, although Jeremy has no trouble eyeing up Wendy.

Helena smirks, half-lidded, and steps back to wave them in. Jeremy turns to help Misha up the steps into the trailer, his cool fingers wrapping around Misha's arm to steady him. Misha can feel that touch even through his jacket. 

The deck is stacked against them from the start, because the trailer's breakfast nook is already occupied by Lord Burton and his bodyslave, the red-headed sour man with his long pianist fingers. Danny, Misha thinks with chagrin, too familiar with the sharp edge of his tongue. And Helena's bodyslave Johnny is at the trailer's small coffeemaker, smoking his cigarillos out the window. The branded side of Johnny's face, the circular burn left by an irate master's cigar, is turned away from the door. It's epic staging on someone's part, calculated to throw Jeremy off. 

_Wonderful,_ Misha thinks, _in a moment they're going to break into 'Ecstasy of Gold' like a spaghetti western._

Despite that momentary lapse by the door, Jeremy doesn't flinch. His jaw is set in a stubborn line as he smiles. "Lord Burton. Lady Bonham-Carter. Good morning."

Tim nods absently, his attention focused past Jeremy and onto Misha. It takes Misha a naive moment to realize that Tim's looking for bruises. Damages. Tim is a scarecrow of a man, but Misha thinks that the results will be frightening if Tim decides that Jeremy hurt him. So, gently removing his arm from Jeremy's grip, Misha signs, _is this a meeting or an ambush?_

Tim blinks, a sign of understanding, and smiles shyly at the table. 

Beside him, Danny gives his caustic laugh. "Cut out your tongue and you've still got your wits." His elegant hands, held low, shape out: _Is your master as smart as you are?_

"He likes to think so," Jeremy drawls. "Is yours?"

Danny looks down with false modesty, his smile showing teeth; Misha can see him glance quickly at Tim for information. Tim meets his eyes and shakes his head, then turns to Helena. "You wanna, y'know..."

"Put some clothes on?" she finishes for him, and sighs. "Danny, try not to be an utter bitch until I get back."

Danny mimes zipping his mouth shut, which could be called an unfortunate choice of gesture if one didn't know Danny. Knowing him, Misha calls it a deliberate choice of gestures. But Danny meets Misha's eyes steadily, more respect than Misha's had since... well. Since before the car crash. Even Jeremy seems to see Misha as more victimized slave than intelligent equal. 

He misses his voice now. He misses his words, all the books he's read and the lessons he's learned lost in translation. 

_Funny,_ Misha signs. _You fucker. I'm dumb, not stupid, isn't that the phrase?_

Danny cracks a smile and signs back, _I don't think that's a phrase._

_I'll make it one, then._

_I imagine you will,_ Danny answers, and rises from the booth. How he manages to scoot gracefully is beyond Misha, particularly given the plastic sheen of his prosthetic left leg just hinted between the hem of his jeans and the beginning of his battered running shoes. With all the aplomb of a maitre de, he gestures Jeremy towards the vacant chair. "Master Sisto."

Where Jeremy was all quick rambling words and amiable distraction before is gone, replaced by thoughtful quiet. After a moment, Jeremy sets his folder on the table and holds his hands palms out. 'Trust me,' the gesture says, subtle manipulation that Misha would've thought beyond Jeremy's ken. "I'd like to skip coffee and begin, if it's good by you."

Tim studies Jeremy for an awkward moment, though Tim is often immune to awkwardness that would make anyone else flinch. Then he cracks a smile. "I need coffee to operate, but yeah." Glancing at Johnny's back (tense with how hard he's listening to the proceedings) and Danny's face, Tim seems to soften a little with familiar fondness. "Give us the room, guys, please."

Danny hesitates, absently reaching back with one hand to grasp Johnny's waistband. Johnny swats at him and, without losing a beat, turns to hand Tim a fresh cup of coffee. His fingers linger on Tim's hand. A signal? 

"No," Jeremy says, so suddenly that even Misha jumps. "No. They can stay."

Tim tilts his head. Asks bluntly, "Why?"

Jeremy smiles. "Only fair, since I think Misha should be here. We're deciding his fate."

Misha tries not to whip a look at Jeremy, but it's a near thing. 

Tim blinks again, pursing his lips in that thin way that says he's thinking hard, then nods. "Fair," he echoes. "Huh. Thought you were a, y'know, an accountant."

"I contain multitudes," Jeremy quips, dropping into the offered booth. There's a strip of seat left, and Jeremy nods Misha into it. 

It's a sign of the meeting to come, depending on which side Misha chooses. Either choice has its consequences; he knows Burton to some extent, but does he trust him not to retaliate? He can't. And Jeremy...

Jeremy will fight, but Jeremy will lose. 

Faltering on his bad knee, Misha winces his way down to a kneeling position on the floor between them. How he's going to get back up is another issue entirely. 

Jeremy doesn't say anything, but he meets Misha's eyes. Something passes between them, something like recognition. It's as if Jeremy's looking to Misha for a reminder. For strength. Then it's gone. Jeremy steeples his long long fingers together, looking at Burton again. Steepled fingers, Misha thinks, a sign of confidence. He hopes it is, anyway. 

Damn. He's really hoping for Jeremy to win, a dangerous germ of hope that could slither around to bite him if Jeremy loses.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Jeremy says, catching Tim off guard like an unfriendly shove in a crowd. In the reflection of the trailer window, Misha sees Johnny and Danny both wince. "Vincent was a good man."

"You didn't know him like me." Tim lifts the coffee, glaring at it instead of Jeremy. Not an auspicious start. "You took his bodyslave while he was dying. Not exactly respect."

"Vincent left him to me. I saved Misha from being sold off into those meatgrinders Commerce calls a retirement option."

"There's a note in Vincent's will that says the kids couldn't do that."

"In case of Vincent's death. The heart monitor was still going. By the funeral, Misha would be off hauling uranium and you'd never find him." 

Beneath the table, Tim's foot is jittering. Jeremy is steady as a knifethrower's hand. 

"The heart monitor," Tim echoes, grief raw under his flat voice. When Johnny starts to move towards him, to try comfort, Tim twitches back to life and waves Johnny off. "I'm fine. M'fine. Um. Give me a sec."

"Sorry," Jeremy murmurs after a moment. If Misha didn't know about Marisa, he'd have trouble believing him. 

Tim shoots him a look, then sighs and takes a long swig of coffee. When he speaks again, he's his normal blunt self. "Why do you care? How'd you get into this?"

"Vincent helped me out when I was a kid. I--"

"Yeah, yeah." Tim waves a hand, nearly sloshing his coffee onto their laps. "No. Don't you have your own bodyslave?"

Misha's heart lurches stupidly. He puts a hand up to still it; out of the corner of his vision, he sees Danny turn to watch him through narrowed eyes. 

"I do," Jeremy says after too long of a pause. "She's sick. I needed a temporary replacement. I found him. He needed..."

"Saving?" Helena slams the trailer's sliding privacy wall into its hiding place with a bang, nearly pulling it off its tracks. She's replaced that dressing gown for sleek black traveling pants and what looks like Tim's half-buttoned shirt. "I think you underestimate Misha."

"I think you weren't there," Jeremy says, his eyes on Helena so he doesn't see Tim wince like the words are an arrow to his heart. 

"Mm." Helena settles one hand on Tim's shoulder, reaching past him to get a cigarette that Johnny lights for her. "And you were. I see. However, we all have spent more time around Vincent than you, and therefore around Misha. You didn't know him well before he lost his voice, and you don't understand. Misha is more clever than you think."

"I know he's clever." Jeremy rests his hands on the folder. He's more unsettled than he seems. His eyes flick to Misha and then away again. "I think he's fucking brilliant. But that's not the point--"

"It is the point. It's exactly the point." Gesturing with her cigarette, Helena says fiercely, "He's our kind, not yours."

Raising his eyebrows, Jeremy asks, "And what kind is that?"

Helena snaps her fingers in fast succession, punctuating her words. "Tricky. Quick. Angry. Too smart, too observant, too defiant. You want to waste him on parties and your bedroom duties--"

"You don't know what I want." 

Helena stops, and the quiet falls heavily. Her smile is wicked. "So enlighten me, darling. What will you use him for?"

Jeremy looks at her, eyes hooded, then deliberately picks up the leather binder and tosses it over one shoulder. It hits the wall hard enough to rival Helena's entrance. "I spent last night on the phone with my lawyer and my Agent, coming up with strategies for this, but... fuck it. I think Misha should decide."

What?

It's been years since someone surprised Misha; he feels it unfurl slow in his chest like origami, and he smiles before he can duck his head to hide it. Ah, bless Jeremy, and Jeremy's good heart. Bless him for trying.

Helena blinks. Tim spins his coffee between his hands, studying whatever he sees in his creamer. 

"You know." Holding his hands up, Jeremy smiles. "He's clever. And it's his future, not mine. Not any of ours."

"Grand theatre," Helena snarks, but her expression is thoughtful. 

Jeremy shrugs, leaning back against the booth. His body language speaks of relaxation, but Misha can see the taut lines of his thighs under the table, and the jitter of his left foot. "Check the binder. All the prep is there."

"Sudden change of heart," Helena says, moving a little towards the binder like she intends to read through it. 

Jeremy doesn't look like he's bluffing, but Misha realizes that he's holding his breath until Tim holds out his arm and blocks Helena mid-step. They exchange a look, and Helena huffs out a breath before sinking back on her heels. Letting his arm drop, Tim says, "What if he doesn't choose you?" 

Another shrug, more stiff this time. It's not of their business, that shrug says, and fuck you for asking. "I'll go."

"Hm." Tim squints, staring at Jeremy; there's more than a little of Vincent in his expression, and it hurts Misha's heart. "If he doesn't choose you, will you get another bodyslave?"

Implied: _do you think Misha is replaceable?_

Jeremy doesn't move, but his expression draws thin. He looks years older, like sitting here and bargaining is costing him by the minute. 

There's no good answer to that; yes and Tim starts a legal battle, no and Jeremy agrees to be a hermit until Marisa recovers-- and Misha can't help thinking of the bridge where Jeremy almost died. Of the pills and the hospital. It's as good as putting him back on that bridge and pushing.

Misha would yelp 'bad form' if he could, but his hands fly up. _Not fair,_ he signs emphatically, realizes he doesn't have anybody's attention, and smacks both hands down on the table. _Bodyslaves are required in the circles he's in, you know that, and you can't ask him to quit his job and lock himself in the basement until his girl recovers. That's bullshit._

All of them stare at Misha like he'd sprouted a third eye. Jeremy is frowning; Helena called it right, Jeremy didn't realize Misha was tricky. But he's about to find out. 

_Let me choose,_ Misha signs, and stops just shy of using Tim's given name. They're master and slave, despite Tim's guilt and aspirations. (He would call Jeremy by his name, but he's trying not to think about that.) _I know my own mind._

Tim softens at once, and jerkily covers Misha's hand with his own. It's a fleeting touch, Tim flinching like a half-tamed animal even if he's the one to initiate contact. It took Vincent years to gain that much ground. "Fuck, of course you-- of course. 'M sorry. I just..."

Just thought like a master. No, that's uncharitable; Tim thought like he'd thought about Vincent, a silent vegetable who needed outside help to mop up his piss. 

_It's all right,_ Misha soothes, and cranes (painfully) to look at Helena. _Is that agreeable to you, Lady?_

Helena is watching him, eyes half-lidded and mouth drawn. She wants him for something, for her own crusade; she's seeing her weapon slip away from her hands. But she knows that he's won Tim. Is she willing to fight her husband and Vincent's memory?

"Yes," Helena says finally. "I agree."

It's like a cat's cradle, a handful of delicate strings wound around his weaving fingers. One slip and it unravels but god, the patterns are beautiful. He has Tim and so that thread pulls in Helena. It's only Jeremy now, Jeremy who surprised him. 

"Okay," Jeremy says, exhaling the word and giving them a creaky smile. "Okay. Misha?"

Yes, he wants to yell, idiot. Instead he signs, _I'd like to go with you._

It takes Jeremy a moment to thaw from expectant, polite blankness; when Misha says yes, he sees that ice crack and expose the darkness within. Jeremy didn't expect to win, and he knew where he'd go without a bodyslave to hold him up. Like this, dressed up and stubborn and formal, he doesn't look sick. He doesn't look like a man who was hospitalized or who nearly took his own life. But he is. 

_Please help me up,_ Misha adds, mostly to occupy the silence. 

"Oh, Jesus, sorry!" Jeremy jerks into motion like a dusty automaton, his hands hovering for a second before taking hold of Misha's extended wrists. The touch sears up Misha's spine, reminding his body that it's made of nerves. "Sorry. Here. Come sit by me."

It hurts to stand, Misha's knee nearly buckling beneath him; he falls into the seat against Jeremy's side and feels the heat of him under his rumpled clothes. So narrow despite his broad shoulders, underfed and sleep deprived and sloppy, warm and alive.

Hesitantly, Jeremy puts an arm across the back of the seat. Misha smiles to himself and feels Helena, watching. 

***

As they're leaving, Tim giving Jeremy a handshake and the legal papers that are his claim to Misha, Helena corners Misha against the stove. She smells like cigarettes and desert water, her skin tinged with the metal of the trailer. "Why?" she husks, "why him?"

Misha doesn't shy away from the intensity of her stare. Signs, _he needs me. You don't._

Helena makes a dismissive sound and turns away. She's hurt, for all her vinegar and her Eartha Kitt imitation. Without looking at Misha, she says, "He's no altruist. You are his selfish charity. I... I had great plans."

Great plans, Misha's had. He's too ready for the small plans now. He would tell her, but she won't see his hands. Instead he takes Jeremy's help down the stairs, and he goes.


	10. Chapter 10

When they tromp back through mud to the car, the smell of baking metal and unwashed skin like unwelcome ghosts of his childhood, Jeremy can hear his cell phone ringing where he left it on the driver's seat. Even without really listening to the ringtone, he knows it's Jeff. It's been Jeff several times this morning already. 

Misha waits on the other side of the car, active fingers at rest, watching two barefoot kids romp with a stringbean puppy. He doesn't miss much, Misha, a trait that's coming more into focus; Vincent had always seemed smugly pleased by Misha, like a man with a pedigree cat that just did a trick. But it's not (just) that Misha is pretty and sleek and fun to pet. He's clever. He's smart under all that silence, brilliant mind ticking away disregarded. 

Vincent traveled in higher circles than Jeremy ever can, by inclination and by his blood. His mother was as good as unmarried when she had him, knocked up by a revolutionary type who went on to live in the desert and blow all his money on leftist charity. But Vincent was clean and he had legal ties to the very beginning of Commerce. What did he see? What incriminating information does Misha remember? 

How can it be used for the Trust?

Then sunlight curves over the silvered scar at Misha's temple, and Jeremy kicks himself. Hard. Misha isn't a political tool, he's a person. Of course he doesn't get the same loyalty Jeremy has for Jeff, but he's still someone Jeremy is as responsible for as he is for his own blood. 

Misha is his now. Misha decided to stay with him, chose him above friends of Vincent's. Does that make Misha more of Jeremy's responsibility, or less?

The phone silences, rolling over into voicemail. Judging from the blinking red light, Jeff's left a message or two already. Jeremy knows it'll be forgiven and forgotten. Irresponsible, flaky Jeremy. 

An SOS tap on the hood of his car jolts Jeremy back to the present, to Misha reaching an arm over the car to catch Jeremy's attention. Once Jeremy is looking at him, Misha signs, _Where are we going?_

That 'we' stabs Jeremy in the heart. Misha chose him; Jeremy wants to ask him why, wants to thank him, but he can't think of what to say. How could he thank somebody for putting their life in his hands? Does Misha even want thanks, or is Jeremy just a means of avoiding Lady Bonham-Carter? He's asking questions around himself, dodging emotion. 

"I set up an appointment for you," Jeremy says, wincing at how rusty his voice sounds. "Orthopedic doctor. She's, uh, she's good people."

Slave-tested, he means, one of the few doctors he knows won't screw over a slave just because she can. Tracy was good to Zach that time he broke his wrist, tending him with gentle scolding and brisk hands, and Misha is probably less aggravating. Jeremy does Tracy's books for free every year, so she owes him a favor. Besides, her bodyslave knows sign language. 

"I can stay with you," Jeremy adds as an afterthought. "If you want. Or we can skip the whole shebang and go out for ice cream."

Marisa would have been terrified at the thought of being left behind with a stranger. Misha tilts his head, frowning but unconcerned. _I'll be fine as long as you come back._

Jeremy grins, not really feeling it. "Yeah, I'll come back. She can only give you an hour but she knows the good physical therapists in town." And she'd write a prescription (in Jeremy's name) for painkillers to ease the taut lines around Misha's eyes that appear every time he has to limp further than a few yards. "She'll hook you up."

Misha nods, already past that and thinking about something else. He signs, _Where are you going to be?_

Jeremy sighs.

****

Applewood House is perched discretely, apologetically, in a suburb that has nothing to do with apples. It's nowhere near busy streets or high buildings, a world with all its sharp edges sanded away. Even its facade, an inoffensive sienna that blends into the background, makes Jeremy itch. 

He parks out front and sits for a few minutes, gripping the steering wheel so hard he sees his knuckles through the skin. His heart is pounding in his ears again, war-drums of panic that he'll go in there and they won't let him out. But he can't be late to see her; she has enough reasons to be angry with him. 

He goes in, pulling the hood of his jacket up to hide his face. He doubts that anyone cares enough to spy on his comings and goings from a facility that rehabs young starlets more than they deal with the bugfuck insane, but he's too paranoid not to have stripped off his accountant drag and replaced it with jeans and a hoodie. 

The waiting area is a depressing melange of old magazines and stiff furniture, a check-in nurse behind glass. Jeremy hovers in the entryway for a second, his body hammering with bolt-bolt-run, and rationality might've lost if he didn't hear the bright song of Jane's silver bangles clashing around her wrist. 

"Jeremy," Jane says, coming out from behind the safety glass. She looks happy to see him, but he can't trust the sincerity of shrinks. Dr. Reid (Jane, she always insists demurely) dresses like her patients, but on her it's too young: bright maxi dresses and bangles, high heeled sandals and low cut shirts. She seems to have a decent heart, though; not many doctors, money aside, would take on a slave in her inpatient ward. Fewer wouldn't try to break the slave with ECT and mindfucks. And only Dr. Reid would keep quiet from the other patients that Marisa is a slave, not a debutante with drug problems. 

It's the best place Jeremy could find: nice doctors, no men on the ward, pretty paintings on the walls. Roommates. Private therapy sessions. 

He feels sick with guilt. 

"Jeremy," Jane repeats, softer, and seems ready to go for a hug. Jeremy cringes without thinking, shrinking back like a beaten dog, and she drops her arms. To her credit, she doesn't make a big deal about it before going on. "Come in. I can't take you through the ward, since you're male and I wouldn't inflict several borderline sex-starved teenagers on you."

"Heh." Rubbing the back of his neck, Jeremy follows on her heels. Jane will never find out how ironic that concern is, given Jeremy's age when he first pounced on Jeff. As they enter the door that reads STAFF ONLY, the tasteful decor drops away to be replaced by industrial beige. Jeremy's stomach rolls over and he's glad he didn't eat breakfast. He'd hate to vomit on Dr. Jane's tiled floor. "Um. How is she?"

"Medicated. Better." Jane stops and turns sharply to look up at him. Instinctively, Jeremy glances back at the door behind him, his hands fluttering at his sides. Jane notices, from the tired thinning of her glossy mouth. "Did you know she stopped taking her pills?"

Dammit. "No. I didn't know that."

"Well, don't take it personally. She's very crafty, Marisa. She keeps palming drugs like a streetcorner magician." 

Yeah, he figured as much. Marisa learned from her years as a pharmaceutical test subject how to skip drug doses, how to act normal and drowsy and unconscious as her keepers required. But fuck, he didn't think she'd do it to him. 

Watching his face, Jane nods to herself. "Sometimes, when couples have the same diagnosis, they decide to quit together. But obviously not."

And obviously Marisa was telling tales out of school. Jeremy averts his eyes from Jane's steady gaze, counting tiles on the floor. He could calculate that number into something significant ( _"Jeff, I know the numbers now, I know how to count faster than gravity!"_ ) but he won't let himself go there. 

"Are you on medication now, Jeremy?" Jane asks gently, so gently Jeremy flinches under his skin. 

"Marisa's your patient. I'm not. I--" _I didn't do anything wrong._ Jeremy fusses with the sleeves of his shirt, running his fingertips over the fraying edge. "I'm taking lithium."

"That's good," Jane murmurs. Cate wouldn't offer her praise like he's a child, but then, Cate's not here. "Okay. She's right through here. She's medicated, like I said, and she-"

On the other side of the door, something crashes against the wall and skitters to the floor. It sounds like a plastic safety cup full of dulled pencils. 

"She is in a mood," Jane finishes tiredly. "Are you sure you want to go in?"

No. Yes. Jeremy resists the urge to raise the cuff of his shirt and chew on it, nervously, like a child. He is the master here, so to speak; the center has to hold. One of them has to be strong. It takes a minute, but he finds calm deep inside like the center of a storm. His voice sounds stark to his own ears. "We won't need company, Dr. Reid. Thank you."

Jane murmurs something, but the world recedes to a dull roar as the door opens. 

Marisa is in a room with a window, safety grates between her and the world. She has her little patch of daylight, curled up small under a quilt. She looks diminished, lank hair around her face and hiding her eyes, her shoulders sloped in to protect the center of her body. The fishbowl sheen of her eyes is all Zyprexa: the depression is there, but the drug is mummifying her too much to feel anything at all. 

Jeremy's heart thuds hard against his ribs. He shuffles in so they can close the door; Marisa hehs and looks away. With a desert dry mouth, he manages to husk out, "Hey, kitten."

"Kitten," Marisa echoes. "Soft and squeaky and helpless. You think I'm helpless?"

Ah, hell. Jeremy crosses his arms around his body so he doesn't come apart. "I think you need help."

"I spent years as a test-tube rat. You think I want help from these people? No. No. I've had all the help I need."

It's the illness talking, and he needs patience. Kindness. But he doesn't feel kind; there are razors inside, jabbing at him if he moves wrong. He fixes his eyes on the tendril of hair at her cheek and suddenly, oddly, wants Misha. 

"You tried to kill yourself," he says, without his intended softness. It's an accusation. "You-- I found you."

"Yes," Marisa says distantly. "That must have hurt very much."

And he's arguing with an empty room. With the medications, not with Marisa. Jeremy leans his back against the wall and just looks at her. He can't come close enough to sit beside her. He doesn't know what he'll do; if he touches her too hard, she'll shatter. 

"Why?" Jeremy asks finally. "Why, baby? What didn't I do?"

Marisa picks up a crayon. The paper is unraveling. She has blue wax under her fingernails. 

"It hurts," she says. "It hurts inside, and you can't fix it. You can't ever. I'm gonna drown us both."

Jesus. "Hey," Jeremy says, sharply enough that she looks at him. Through him. It's spooky as hell, raising the hair on his neck. "No. No, you hear me? You're gonna get better. You'll get on better meds, and. And it'll be okay. We'll go up the coast again, right? See the leaves? You loved that. Dog parks with Winston. New books. Christmukkah--"

"Oh, Jeremy," Marisa murmurs, as if he's the one who's bleeding. "I think we've done enough damage to each other. Don't you?"

Chilled, Jeremy kneads the heel of his hand hard against his sternum, to keep his heart in. He has visions of losing it, watching it bounce across the tiled floor so Marisa can grind it under her bare grubby feet. "Nah, I think we have years of damage ahead of us. We haven't even started throwing dishes at each other."

Marisa chuckles, a little pained noise, and draws her legs up to her chest. "Jer."

"See?" Jeremy nudges. "It's okay. It's just a bad... you crashed out, baby, it happens."

Marisa squints at him. "You trying to be encouraging?"

Jeremy shrugs. "Is it working?"

"No. You look too awful." Her expression crumples by degrees, like a landslide. "I'm so pissed at you."

"Yeah. Ditto." There's a tabletop between them. Jeremy could reach across and take her hand, but he sees the hospital's wristband and can't bear touching it. He wants a cold beer and Winston, not this place; he wants Jeff. "No, sorry. At the disease, not you."

"'At the disease'," she echoes, jerkily turning her face to the wall. The tenuous path between them drops away. Her voice is flat with medication, affectless. "You don't get it. You never get it."

His chest hurts like a heart attack. Jeremy pushes harder, digging bruises with his knuckles so he doesn't raise his voice. "So tell me."

"It's not the disease. I made a choice. Can't I have free will?" Marisa's hands flutter, an uneasy echo of Misha. "Can't I just be sad?"

"You can't hurt yourself--"

"Because you own me?" Marisa snaps, then catches Jeremy's expression and hastily combs her hair in front of her face. "'m sorry. 'm sorry."

All the righteous anger bleeds out of Jeremy at once. He leans back, away from her, one hand out to soothe a feral cat. "Shh. Shh. You don't have to be sorry. I won't hurt you. It's okay."

"Don't take me back to the doctors."

"I wouldn't. Shh." Helplessly, Jeremy pets the air several feet away from Marisa's shoulders. She doesn't see it. "I love you. Okay? You're my girl. Shh."

Her shoulders hitch, then bunch as Marisa smacks her closed fist against her knee. "I can't even cry right," she whispers, "fuck. Fuck."

"It's the drugs. It's not you. You're okay." Jeremy shifts the chair closer, his hand stretched out, and she shies away. "Can I--" 

"You get to go home," Marisa says. 

"Sweetheart..."

"Don't you call me that, Jeremy," she mutters. "Don't you call me that. Just go home. Go fuck Zach because Jeff won't have you."

Jeremy's open hand jerks closed, into a fist. He draws away from her. She doesn't look up. 

"I love you," he says, when he can say anything, and knocks on the door for Jane.

Marisa stares at the barred window, silent.


	11. Chapter 11

Misha knows doctors; he's seen plenty of them since the car accident, from neurologists to podiatrists and every specialty between. But he's never seen a doctor quite like Traci Dinwiddie.

She floats into the (strangely comfortable) exam room, missing her white coat and cold stare. She's wearing sandals on her feet. Pink toenail polish. Her mess of dark hair is piled on top of her head, reminding Misha a little of Jeremy. That shouldn't put him at ease, but it does.

"Misha," she says, without first squinting at a clipboard and mispronouncing his name, and thrusts out her callused hand. Misha almost fails to take her hand, he's so unused to one being offered. "Hello, it's wonderful to meet you. I'm Traci. You mind if I look at your knee?"

Obviously not, since he's here and on her examining table, but she means well. Misha spreads his hands and smiles, hoping that she read his intake form and knows he can't make chit-chat.

"Good, good. Because if you'd rather, I can have my bodyslave-- some people aren't comfortable around doctors. Or women. Or women doctors. Or women doctor masters. Mistresses. Whatever." Traci smiles at him. "I speak sign, so please let me know if anything bothers you at all. I'm used to working around, y'know. Things. Now just bear with me while I check you over, and grab my hand if it hurts or is uncomfortable."

Misha blinks at her, hoping it looks thoughtful instead of brain damaged, and nods. When she continues to watch him, eyes crinkling up at the corners with the size of her smile, he haltingly stretches his bad leg out so she can see.

"Okay." Grasping his knee with her hands, Traci carefully tilts the joint, stopping short when he jolts under her touch. "Sorry, honey, did that--? All right, here. Lie down."

There's a flutter of true anxiety: can he trust this woman? Can he get past her and run if she tries to hurt him? This is something he hasn't had to worry about, not until Vincent-- until he died, damn it, Misha can use the word. He has to use the word.

Jeremy trusts this woman. Besides which, Misha can roll to the floor and crawl out if he has to.

Traci has waited while he deliberates, to her great credit. When he meets her eyes, she raises her brows and asks, "Okay?"

Yes, this is a change from every other doctor he's known. Misha nods and slits his eyes almost closed, watching her through the lashes, the splintering prisms of light dancing across the featureless ceiling.

The exam is unpleasant, pressure and passive movement and pain, sometimes so great that it makes his breath catch in his throat. He stays still under her hands, though, and that's some kind of victory. He is a good patient. At least he's a good something.

"X-ray," Traci mutters finally, and then louder, "I'll be right back. Need some scans of your knee. You want a buzzer in case you need anything in the next few minutes?"

Christ, how degrading would that be?

Apparently his expression is an answer, because Traci snorts out an unpolitic laugh. It makes Misha like her better. "You told me," she says, and pushes aside a discreet curtain to reveal a machine that slots over the examination table. She pushes it over without visible strain, the lean muscles of her arms cording briefly. Misha looks; he's not blind. By the time he can avert his eyes from the curve of her breast, Traci has his knee in her hands and is pushing a plate under it. It all happens so quick he barely has time to wince, a sharp bite of pain in his knee, before Traci has him settled again. She winces with him, for him, and asks anxiously, "That all right? You're not hurting?"

Misha gives her a thumbs up, and she goes out. The buzzing of the X-ray is like a swarm of bees. From outside the room, he hears her curse.

When Traci comes back, the twinkle is swept away from her face. Replacing it is a bleak sort of rage, and beneath that, pity. Misha's stomach turns over.

"Oh honey," she says. "You must be in so much pain."  
****  
The gray-scale X-ray of Misha's knee is pinned up against the light like a scarlet letter, and nobody seems to know what to say.

Yes, there's pain; of course there's pain, Misha had his knee slammed into the side of a car at a ridiculous speed. He still remembers hearing the bones' wet crack before his head hit the glass, ugly as the realization that Vincent wasn't wearing a seatbelt. But he didn't fuss about it. Things happen, and besides, he's a slave.

Somehow he doubts that Jeremy will accept that as reason.

The first image is admittedly impressive, his bones all fucked up. It's a miracle that the leg will bear any weight at all.

Jeremy came to the appointment looking drawn, but the news punched any remaining light out of him. His hand is resting absently on Misha's good knee, gripping and relaxing like a kneading cat, as he stares at the X-ray like he can force it to submit to the right configuration. But Traci took a series of shots, moving Misha like a ragdoll, muttering about asshole doctors who ought to have their licenses taken. There's no denying the situation.

"You were treated after the wreck?" Jeremy asks, finally tearing away from the X-rays. "I mean, at all?"

Misha shrugs uncomfortably. He can't make himself voice any complaints about Vincent's flesh and blood, even if he privately thinks they're idiots. _I was examined. They stabilized things._

"They left your leg to heal crooked." Traci touches the X-ray at a few points. "It should've been set here and here, but they didn't, and so... fuck! What a mess."

 _But can you fix it?_ Misha asks, glad that the plaintive tone of the question gets lost in translation. Can she take away the pain that keeps him up nights, or the limp that slows him down? Can she make him normal again, or as much as he ever was?

But Traci is shaking her head slowly, regretfully. Misha's world turns quietly over; he didn't know he was hoping until she told him no.

Jeremy rubs a soothing circle on Misha's back, like he did at the funeral, and asks her, "What can you do?"

"Christ." Traci turns and scowls at the X-rays, thinking. "Okay, if it was up to me? I'd go in surgically and re-break the bones here, do a total knee replacement and heavy duty PT. Two to four days in the hospital--"

 _Not that,_ Misha signs, immediately revolted. Four days at the outside? Who would take care of Jeremy? Bad enough that he's repaying Jeremy's investment with costly surgery and a defective slave. _I don't want that._

Jeremy gives him this look, all mournful dark eyes. "Misha," he begins, too gently for this tiny medical office with a stranger in it. "If you're hurting--"

 _I'm fine. I'm fine._ At Jeremy's skeptical expression, Misha huffs out a breath that would be a curse. _It's not that bad._

"A few more years, you might not have any choice if you want to walk." Traci shakes her head, tendrils of her hair slipping down around her face. "I really advise the full replacement, Misha. I know it's a hard road but your knee is going to get arthritic. But I can buy you maybe five years if we just go in with an arthroscope and clean up the debris. That'll help the pain. I can prescribe some muscle relaxants and pain meds for the rest. And you're gonna need to use a cane to ease the strain."

A cane. Dismayed, Misha moves his attention to the floor. He can't meet her sympathy while he's howling inside, furious with 'no'. Burton's people use canes; the very old use canes. He can't do this. He's not a good enough person to bear up under this weight.

But he doesn't get a choice. The accident is done. His world's been shrinking ever since.

 _Can we have a minute?_ Misha signs, not looking up. 

"Sure, honey. You two need to talk it out." Traci stops in front of him, her pink toes pointed in his direction. "You want some tea? Coffee? Yeah, Jer, I know you want coffee, I'm asking your friend."

Misha shakes his head, subdued. It feels hard to think or act. He's tired, suddenly, he wants to go home to Jeremy's bed and sleep. His leg hurts, not the dull everyday throb but the sharper spike.

Jeremy is too quiet, his body turned to the X-rays even as his hand rests on Misha. Thinking. Regretting?

 _I'm sorry,_ Misha signs, still averting his eyes from Jeremy's face.

"Mm?" Jeremy attends, turning a little so his knee bumps Misha's good knee. "For what?"

The question sounds genuinely puzzled. Torn between relief and wanting to kick Jeremy in the shin, Misha clarifies, _for all this. You didn't sign on for this._

Oddly, Jeremy huffs out an almost-laugh. "For what? Mish, I signed on for you." While Misha's still reeling, Jeremy adds, "I'm sorry. I should've gotten you to the doctor earlier-- hey, stop shaking your head at me, I mean it. I'm sorry you're hurting. I'm-- I'm sorry."

Misha feels his hands flutter, but there's no signal beneath that noise. He exhales and takes Jeremy's hands, squeezing once. Jeremy's fingers are cold, his nails bitten, but it's still nice to hold his hands.

Watching Misha's face, Jeremy says, "You can do the big surgery. I know... I know. But I'm here. I'll be here."

There's been plenty of useless comfort offered to Misha lately, but Jeremy's reaches deep in him and quiets his thumping heart into calm. Misha manages a lopsided smile, reluctantly frees his hands and signs, _after Marisa is back._

Despite what Misha pretends, he sees Jeremy flinch a little at Marisa's name. Misha notes that, files it for later. He has enough to think about.

"So can we get you a bitching sword cane?" Jeremy asks.

For now, it's all right.


	12. Chapter 12

_They catch him unaware, freshly drugged and just out of Group. He struggles like he's underwater, but not for long, the shackle of an attendant's fist around his arm; once and only once he makes them drag him, but that just makes things worse. The room is cold by association, and he's shivering before the restraints come down. His back hits the gurney where they do this ritual, chilly metal on his skin where his shirt gaps up away from his pants._

_Once he's down, the orderlies slip away._

_"No," he says, words blurring in his mouth, "no no fuck no don't I'll do better--"_

_Water sprays his chin and mouth as the nurse snaps the sheet to a military-sharp edge, tucking him in, pinning him down. The sheets they fold around him are brutally cold, like ice against his skin-- it's medicine, they think they can make his skittish manic thoughts quiet down and go sluggish like his own fading struggles. He tastes bleach. He shudders, his head snapping back, and the nurse rests her hand on his forehead. He's seventeen, seventeen and scared that maybe they'll tell his mother. He wants out. He wants to be somewhere else than this, on the beach, in Jeff's bed. He wants to be somewhere safe._

_They think they're saving him, but he's forgetting that there are other places than these gray hallways, medicine in small white cups, bars on the windows and no sharp edges. He is being erased, and it is kind._

_"Shh, honey," the nurse whispers, and smiles down at him. "You'll feel so much better if you cry."_

A short, hard shake jolts Jeremy awake and upright. His heart is pounding like he ran a marathon, and he can feel the sweat in a hot line down his back. It's an uneasy reminder of the nightmare. That isn't where the dream ends, but... even through a fuckton of muscle relaxants and painkillers, Misha woke up and saved him.

Peering at Jeremy like he wants to sign something but doesn't want to let go to do it, Misha tilts his head. Asks the silent, obvious question: _what the hell was that?_

Misha is so close; Jeremy wants to part dark tousled hair and press his lips to Misha's forehead, breathe in the clean sleep scent of him. Instead, Jeremy rasps out, "I'm gonna go for a run."

Immediately, Misha glances at the bedroom windows. It's 5:30 in the morning, still dark outside, but the day will be warming up. He's too cold, the nightmare clinging to him. There will be open air to breathe, space to run-- and no way for Misha to come along. It confirms Jeremy's suspicion that he's a bad person in addition to a bad owner, but hell, he needs to shake this off and he can't trust himself not to lash out.

 _"Just like your mother," his father whispers in his memory._ Jeremy scrubs a hand over his face and swings his legs out of bed. His sneakers are shoved under the bed; he grabs them by the laces and goes to get some sweatpants. Misha watches him, expression creased with worry. There's no question that Misha knows Jeremy's shaking him off, but Misha doesn't protest or even seem angry. That only makes things worse.

"Go back to sleep," Jeremy tells him, shoving his way into sweatpants. Even with the elastic band, the pants slink down to rest on his hips. "It's fine, Mish, just... just a bad dream."

When he turns around, Misha signs, _who's Jeff?_

A shiver creeps up Jeremy's back. He asks too sharply, "Why would you ask that?"

Misha sighs. _Because you were calling his name._

Still. Always. Shaking off that chill, Jeremy pulls on a thick shirt that still smells faintly of Marisa. "Was I? Sorry. I can't remember what I was dreaming about. You want another painkiller before I go?"

Misha shakes his head, solemn and sad-eyed in his ridiculous pajamas. It's too easy to wonder how long he'll stay there in Jeremy's bed, more solid and comforting than Marisa could ever be. He wants to say something, Jeremy can see that much, but he makes sure to leave before Misha calls him a liar.  
***  
The mantra of the monastery: feel each breath, live each step, be here now. Jeremy tries.

He runs, the sleeping houses coming awake around him. Each stride eats up the sidewalk, impact jarring up his calves and into his knees. He should've stretched or started slower, but he needs to get his house far behind him.

He's still shivering. Can't get warm, fuck, why does this still haunt him? Why can't he let it go?

Shoving the insistent panic from the front of his thoughts, he forces his cramping body to go faster. He's a free man, he's outside and the gray sky is above him. He has a job and a car and a mortgage. He takes care of people. He is in control. He's better; he has to be better.

Then why is he swallowing lithium every night?

There's a red light ahead, a place to stop and quiet his heaving breaths, but he takes a sharp right and nearly skids to his knees on wet pavement. Keeps going, even though he hears someone curse him from a car window. This isn't jogging, the LA past-time of aspiring young kids with something to prove. This is running for his life. Or running from it.

Footsteps ring out behind him, and for a terrified moment, he is being chased through the ward and there's a needle at his back. There's the bed, the straps, the long rasp of the night guard's zipper. Then he's caught, touched on the shoulder, tag he's it; his breath hiccups hurtfully in his throat and he swings around, fist clenched even through he knows he won't fight at all.

"Jer!" Zach is doubled over and wheezing, one arm looped protectively over his stomach. "Jesus Christ, dude, where's the fire?"

Jeremy can taste his heartbeat. He's glad he didn't eat before he took off, or he'd be puking in somebody's landscaped bushes. Scrubbing his arm over his mouth, he shrugs and huffs out, "Just running."

"Yeah, I can see that, dipshit."

"Sorry." Jeremy wants water, suddenly, his mouth as dry as a stone. Side effects. He swallows a few times, shakes the sweaty hair out of his eyes. "Sorry. You okay?"

Zach waves him off and straightens gingerly. "Damn. I haven't run like that since I started with Jeff. You cool?"

"Sure, sure. Why wouldn't I be?"

Quirking an eyebrow, Zach drawls, "Right. C'mon, walk some and cool down, or you're gonna regret it."

"Mmph." With a last longing look down the sidewalk away from his house, Jeremy caves to the inevitable. Zach won't buy Jeremy's bullshit and if he keeps running, there'll be questions. He turns and falls in step with Zach, headed back home. "What're you doing in this part of town?"

"Looking for you." At Jeremy's blank look, Zach throws his hands up in exasperation. "Dude. Football watching at Jeff's. Ryzer comes over here for a few hours to give us a break. Any of this ringing a bell?"

"It's Sunday?"

"Yeah, man." Zach narrows his eyes. "You sure you're--"

"Yes," Jeremy snaps, "I'm fine. Ryzer usually stays with Gina, and she's... I'll stay here today, I think. Give her a hand with the squirt."

Zach grunts, and they walk in silence for a minute. Long enough for Jeremy to think that maybe he's in the clear. Then Zach sidesteps into Jeremy's space, swinging a lazy arm around his shoulders so their bodies collide at the hip. Jeremy nearly ends up in somebody's bushes, but Zach doesn't let him fall.

"Naw," Zach says, while Jeremy flails for balance. "You're coming with. You need to get out of the house."

"I'm out of the house all the freaking time--"

"Not like working, jackass. You need to come hang out with people who aren't paying you to do their taxes. Or, y'know, us." Catching Jeremy before he can even open his mouth, Zach says, "I'll run interference with Jeff, if you want. Just come with, all right? Wendy's worried."

It's no small offer for Zach to make. Jeff's still Zach's master, liberal or not, and under uneasy friendship Jeremy knows Zach doesn't trust Jeff's morals to hold much weight. Wendy's obviously not the only one who's freaked out.

In other words, Zach is the best friend ever, and he's offering Jeremy a hand up.

"I'm fine," Jeremy repeats, but he knows he's lost.

Zach doesn't dignify that with a response, squeezing Jeremy once and letting him go. "Besides, you need to introduce the new guy. He hasn't been traumatized enough yet."

It's a good point. Misha came from rattling around Vincent's deserted house to rattling around here. Denis and Gina are good people, but it's a quiet and insular existence. The silence nurtures grief. The warm chaos of Jeremy's friends might be good for Misha, considering. "Poor, poor Misha."

"One of us, one of us," Zach chants, and grins when Jeremy laughs.


	13. Chapter 13

When they get back to the house, Zach shoves Jeremy at the steps. "Go shower," he says, "you stink."

"Thanks," Jeremy drawls.

Zach makes kissy faces at him and slaps him on the ass.  
***  
The upstairs is deserted, which probably should've told Jeremy something's up. Nobody ever claimed he was brilliant. Once he's past his bedroom door, he sheds clothes with each step. His thoughts are carefully not on the floor as he steps into the bathroom, not down where Marisa lay so still he thought he was too late. He thinks about getting an elevator; he thinks about renting a hotel room for after Misha's surgery. When he sniffs his sweatshirt and wrinkles his nose, Wendy's laugh rings out and jerks his attention back to reality.

Wendy's perched on the bathroom sink, naked as Godiva, though she'd roll her eyes and make cracks about a classical education if Jeremy said that out loud. Her hair even hangs loose and blond over her breasts, the way she knows Jeremy likes it. "Boys," she remarks acidly. "You're all the same."

"Should've been a lesbian, then." Jeremy drops his sweatshirt, then regrets it, very aware of his nudity under her cat eyes. "Wen--"

"Shh." Snagging him with her leg, she draws him close. He can smell her, rich as the sea and as wet. Seeing that, she smiles. "Yeah. Been wound up all morning."

"Fuck." Jeremy slips his hand up her thigh and finds her swollen, drenched, hot under his exploring fingers. His resistance isn't strong enough to deal with that; he strokes her with his thumb from cunt to clit, and she jerks, head tipping back to expose her long tan throat. "Fuck," he says again, softer, circling the hard nub of her clit to watch her shudder. "What do you need?"

She arches, her shoulder-blades squeaking friction against the mirror at her back, hair parting enough to bare one brown nipple. "Fuck me. My mouth, my pussy, I don't even fucking care, just--"

Jeremy groans-growls, leaning down to mouth the exposed curve of her breast. Wendy makes a noise low in her throat and moves into him, her legs opening wider like she can pull him in. All of him, warm in the circle of her embrace. He remembers the moon of her pregnant belly and the deep pained cries she made as she pushed Ryzer into the world. He remembers their first awkward kiss over a midnight feeding, the clash of teeth and the ghost of orange juice on her breath.

This should not be easier than Marisa on her best day, but god, it is.

"Please," Wendy pants, "please," and Jeremy forces himself back to her. He eases two fingers inside, grinning briefly at the wet welcoming sound it makes, and Wendy groans in deep gratification when he curves them up to hit the right spot. She actually grabs his hair, fisting both hands and pulling his head down to her nipple, which he takes into his mouth and scrapes lightly lightly with his teeth. Doesn't stroke her clit, not yet, even though he feels it throb and twitch under his thumb, but the hungry grind of her hips rubs her off in not-quite-right little motions. She tightens rhythmically around his fingers and tries to force his hand, whimpering once when he nudges a free finger back to stroke her tight asshole.

"God," Wendy whispers, "dirty little-- let me, let me see, oh--"

Jeremy hums, pleased, and reaches down with his unoccupied hand to fist his cock.

She growls, her heel digging into the small of his back. "All wet at the head. Love it like that, nngh. C'mon. Give it."

Fuck, for a prep school girl Wendy can blurt out shit to make even Jeremy blush. He pets her clit, light as anything, just to hear her whine and feel her flutter around his fingers. "Condom, honey."

"Aw, fuck, who cares, just..." Wendy thumps the back of her head against the mirror, so wound tight that there's a blush crept up between her breasts. "Just come in me, fill me up. Want it. Zach'll lick me out later." When Jeremy twitches, Wendy gives him a crafty look. "Yeah? You like that? You want me in Jeff's living room, your come on my thighs--"

"Jesus, woman, shh." Half-laughing, half-horrified, Jeremy kisses his way up to her grinning mouth and makes her be quiet. He strokes her clit, a few good long circles until she's making hitching "oh, oh," noises into his mouth, then slips his fingers out. Her moan of loss makes him love her a little. "Shh," he whispers, and lines up to her dripping pussy, soaks himself in it for a few delirious seconds. Glides inside her, easy as breathing, and shivers all over. "Wen."

Wendy purrs, crossing her long legs behind his back, taking him deeper. "Yeah. Fuuuck." Then, as he grinds against her, feeling the burn of her pubic hair, she sighs low and deep like a prayer. "Fuck me. Fuck me. I need..."

He can't thrust hard, with Wendy crowded against the mirror, can't hurt her. But he gives her deep and long and slow, drinking her in sips like some fine wine, her body around him, her scent and her heat. Words settle into quiet, hitching breaths and sighs instead of moans; when he eases a hand between them and touches her clit, she comes in long shuddering waves, rippling around him, holding him tighter. He can't help following, gripping her hips and burying his face in her throat. 

When it's over, Jeremy can't feel his knees.

Wendy's the first to move, unwinding her legs from his hips and letting her heels thump against the cabinets. Her purring hum makes Jeremy huff out a tired laugh.

"Good," she murmurs, then stretches, letting him slip out. "God. I guess you need to jog more often."

Jeremy swats her flank and pushes back. "I guess I need you to ambush me."

Wendy smirks at him, tousled and pleased with herself, and points at the shower. "You stink, boy, go hose off. And hurry up, or we're gonna be late."

"Yeah, and whose fault is that?" Halfway in the shower, Jeremy quirks an eyebrow. "You want to join me?"

"No." Dropping easily off the sink, Wendy beams at him. "I did promise Zach some, ah. Satisfaction."

Jeremy gives a last wrung-out shudder, his dick twitching in a valiant attempt at resurrection; Zach might want to lick him clean, too, Wendy's juices slick all over him. "Y'know, you did. You want to bring him in here?"

****

They're late, but none of them mind.


	14. Chapter 14

The kitchen is nicer than Vincent's, Misha thinks, or at least homier. There are filmy curtains and such. There's Gina, with her stained apron and her messy hair, working at the stove top over something that smells delicious. Misha doubts that Jeremy will eat it, though; he's found that Jeremy seems to exist on coffee and snark. Which may explain why Jeremy likes Denis so well.

"He's running again," Gina tells Denis, still facing the stove. Misha knows she's telling Denis because Gina doesn't seem to tell Misha anything, though she was kind enough to make him brownies to show her weird sympathy regarding Vincent. She's sweet, so Misha won't leave her a sharply worded note about being mute, not deaf. "Should we..."

When her silence trails off, Denis shoots a blistering look at her back. "Should we what, hold an intervention? 'Gee, sorry your girl tried to pull a Sylvia Plath, but we're worried about your cardio routine.'"

"I don't mean it like that."

"Then how do you mean it?"

It's a bit like watching a tennis match. Misha stares into his mug of tea, rotating it slowly in its own perspiration, and feels Winston settle against his leg. The sound of the door opening brings them both to attention; Misha doesn't care to examine the similarities.

People emerge into the kitchen, none of whom are Jeremy. Misha identifies them as Zach and Wendy, the friendly (very friendly) couple from the night Vincent died. Wendy has Ryzer on her hip, and Zach has a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. The bag seems to have the accessories necessary for the upkeep of a toddler.

Ryzer (who is actually dressed, unlike the last time Misha saw him) sees Winston and throws out both chubby arms, nearly pulling Wendy off balance. "Cow!"

Winston bolts out of the kitchen, and Ryzer makes a disappointed little squawk. Gina abandons what she was doing and takes Ryzer from Wendy, grunting a little. "Doggy, honey," Gina corrects. "Dog."

Wendy sighs. "Don't even bother. Everything's a cow right now, except for what's a truck."

Generalization error, Misha thinks automatically.

"Hey, fuckface," Denis says to Zach. To Ryzer, he adds (probably thinking it sounds less affectionate), "Hey, shrimp."

Zach slings the full bag onto Denis's lap. "Don't swear in front of my goddamn kid, jerk." To Wendy, "Why don't you get on his case about swearing?"

"Because Denis is like a natural disaster," Wendy says. "And he's not my man."

Denis shrugs. "Whatever, like he doesn't think F is for Fuck anyway."

Ryzer tries to put his fingers in Gina's mouth. Gina grins and pretends to gnaw on him, with that odd adult tendency to play at cannibalism. "Nom nom," she teases, "gonna eat you up like candy. Sweet little baby."

"Brains," Ryzer drones. "Braaaains."

Wendy shoots a look at Zach, who pretends to see something interesting out the window. After a minute, she reaches over and pinches his side, an affectionate married gesture that unexpectedly twists Misha's heart. Misha sits back in his chair and returns to watching his cup, a safer prospect, though he is very aware of Zach slouching into a chair beside him. Wendy doesn't join him, and after a moment Misha hears her tromp up the stairs. To Jeremy's bedroom.

To Jeremy's bed.

He has no right to bristle. He is not bristling. But he hopes she can smell him on Jeremy's sheets.

The thing is, Misha knew why Vincent never took him to bed. There was Bess, for one, that great open wound like a shark bite on the side of a huge ancient whale, disrupting its majesty and slowly bleeding it to death. But there was also Lord Burton, Vincent's beloved Tim; they didn't sleep together, that Misha knows of, because of Tim's twitchy damage and Vincent's old grief. The want had been there for anyone to see, though, a cord that drew tight between them even on Tim's wedding day. So Misha couldn't take Vincent's chaste affection too personally.

Jeremy has Marisa, and Zach and Wendy, and that should be reason enough for Misha.

Gina takes Ryzer to the cookie jar, which is apparently a good replacement for brains, because Ryzer stuffs one in his mouth and beams sloppily around it.

"How is he?" Zach asks Denis, voice pitched low. Which he would know if he hadn't left Jeremy alone in this deserted house, if he had just taken Jeremy into his home and his family instead of fucking him on the side--

Misha gnaws on his hangnail until he tastes blood.

Denis shrugs. "Jogging. Lit out of here like his ass was on fire a few minutes ago."

"Ah." Zach scowls at no one in particular, only flicking Gina a sidelong glance as she puts a mug of coffee in front of him. "Thanks, honey."

"Honey," Gina snorts, but she doesn't seem offended by Zach's pet-names or by his lack of interest. Which Misha notes, his stomach sinking; given that Zach and Wendy are having sex on the wrong side of the sheets with Jeremy, he'd assumed that Zach would be flirting with everything that breathed. That Zach seems faithful, aside from Jeremy, makes this an even harder sell.

Misha should be pleased that his master is being satisfied without him getting carpal tunnel or getting reamed. This is a mercy for everyone involved.

Zach gives the mug a last longing look, then pushes back from the table. "Yeah, I'll be right back. Gonna go fetch him."

Misha has never felt the pain of his useless leg so keenly. He wants to go with Zach to retrieve his (master) Jeremy. He wants to be able to run beside Jeremy in companionable silence, or to speak soothing words, or to make him laugh. God, he wants to just go on a jog like he used to. Instead he has to let Zach, who already knows so much more of Jeremy in every sense, go in his stead.

"Bring back smokes," Denis suggests.

Zach flicks his ear, then pauses halfway out of his chair to peer at Misha. Too startled to avert his eyes, Misha peers back, and realizes that Zach's eyes are an eerie shade of green. Like sea-glass. An unexpected place for beauty, in this foul-mouthed stoner father who is Misha's competition.

Not that this is a competition.

Fuck.

Still poised too close to Misha, Zach asks, "How you doing, Mish? How's the knee?"

Vincent did not like nicknames. He did not tolerate the shortening of his own name to Vin or Vinnie or Vince; he tolerated 'Misha' because Misha wouldn't respond to Dmitri , but he found 'Mish' beneath Misha's dignity and his own. It's strange, the things that remind Misha of the old man. His grief is raw and open, too easy to fall into. Misha is torn between fury and an unfamiliar urge to laugh. He swallows both and signs, _Fine. You should retrieve Jeremy._

Zach quirks an eyebrow, as if he wants to pursue Misha like he's about to pursue Jeremy, but he nods and gets to his feet. He's as tall as Jeremy, and Misha has to crane his head back to maintain eye contact while he sits; he'd stand, but his leg hurts like a fiery ember is wedged behind the kneecap.

 _Take something for the pain,_ Zach signs, guitarist hands unfolding crane-like over the unwelcome words. _It'll kick in by the time Jeremy's ready to go._

Misha can't quite wipe his scowl away. He is not Zach's to care for, not like some accessory of Jeremy's that must be attended to. He signs, _Jeremy needs me._

 _He needs one less thing to worry about today,_ Zach signs back, unflinching. _If I noticed, he'll see it too._

Fuck you, Misha thinks, fuck you and your advice, what do you know? But he does know, the bastard, Zach knows Jeremy better that Misha probably ever will, so Misha reaches in his jacket and uncaps the painkillers, popping one and swallowing it dry as he glares up at Zach.

 _Thank you,_ Zach signs with exaggerated emphasis, then looks at Ryzer, his expression warming and opening up. It's hard to dislike someone who looks at his child that way, though Misha has little experience with fathers to use as a barometer. "Ryz, you be good, okay? C'mere and talk to Uncle Misha."

Misha contemplates homicide. But before he can think of something cutting to say, Ryzer is shoving a slobbery cookie at Misha, and Zach is gone.


	15. Chapter 15

When they get to Jeff's door, Jeremy can feel the sweaty-sick fear that's been haunting him all morning kick into overdrive. He backs up a step without thinking, but the arm Zach has around his hips tightens and then the door opens. And no, it couldn't be Sam or Kane or even that pretty new bodyslave Jensen to open the door, it's Jeff, because he's Jeff and that's how he rolls.

With that incredible eye-crinkling smile, Jeff says, "Hi." Then his attention flits to Jeremy and he frowns. There used to be a time when Jeff didn't end up frowning sometime in every conversation they have. "Hey. Pick up your phone, asshole."

"You're an asshole," Zach says easily, and pulls a baggie of weed from his jeans pocket, letting it unroll open. "We're here, the party started. Move."

Jeff scoffs but moves to one side, still hugging the door so only one person can get past him. Canny bastard. His eyes tick to Wendy, then to Misha. There's no missing Misha, dressed to the nines and waiting slave-quiet a few discreet steps back. Jeff switches into a smile meant for strangers. "Well," he says to Misha. "I... don't think we've met."

Jeremy can feel Zach tense up. Wiggling away from Zach's arm, Jeremy tells Jeff, "He's with me. This is Misha. Misha, Jeff."

Misha gives Jeff that formal half-bow, his eyes watchful and considering.

Jeff looks at Jeremy, like is he now?, but nods. "C'mon in, then. Any friend of Jeremy's..."

Jeremy coughs 'bullshit', because really. Marisa's been around for years and Jeff still can't stand her. Jeff doesn't bristle, but his eyes narrow a little above his steady smile, and Jeremy can practically hear the bell for round one. Instead of turning throat like he really wants, like he knows will make Jeff step off, Jeremy stares back with the biggest fakest smile he's got. He's an accountant; his fake smiles are pretty good.

"Oh Christ," Wendy says, and shoves Zach. "Go in, babe. The beer's probably getting warm. And Misha needs a chair."

The reminder of Misha's knee makes Jeremy's ears pink, because he's acting like a jerk while Misha's hurting, but-- but. Jeremy knows Zach gives him a sidelong look (what happened to running interference?) before giving up and letting his girl boss him inside. Wendy's got a grip on Misha, too, nudging him past.

Before Jeremy can try to figure out how to get around Jeff without dropping his eyes, Jeff sighs like this-- like Jeremy-- is enormously exhausting and scrubs a hand over his face. His voice is pitched soft, too gentle to handle right now. "Where's Marisa?"

"If we're gonna do this, can we at least do it in your office?" Jeremy hates that acid in his voice, he knows Jeff isn't trying to be a dick, but he can't bite it back. He's tired of being patient and he knows Jeff can take it. "Or do you want to sell tickets?"

Jeff glances at Jeremy through his fingers, then nods and drops his hand.

"Okay." Hackles easing down, Jeremy glances after Misha and repeats, "okay. Let me get Misha settled first."

"I'm sure he's fine, Jer. He'll be lucky if Wendy doesn't try to feed him the whole turkey chopped up into Ryzer-sized bits." Jeff hesitates, hand at his side, like he wants to touch Jeremy's shoulder. When Jeremy straightens, out of reach, a muscle in Jeff's jaw jumps. "C'mon, get in here."

He's pushed Jeff far enough; Jeremy goes. He knows his way to Jeff's office, they've had enough confabs there, so he leaves Jeff behind to close the door.

He likes Jeff's house. It's as empty as his own, relatively speaking, but it always feels warmer. Jeremy tries not to dawdle, because he knows Jeff will grab him and steer him if he does, and he has this feeling that he'll crumble like old paper if Jeff lays hands on. He doesn't like to be any more pathetic than he has to be.

When Jeff catches up, Jeremy's already slung into Jeff's desk chair, all the hurt wiped clean from his face. It's all good, he's fine. Jeff is... well, Jeff's like a client or a very long con. Even if Jeremy's not sure which of them is the con artist and which is the mark.

"Okay," Jeff says, knocking the door shut. "What was that?"

"It's fine."

"I didn't ask if it was fine, I asked--"

"I heard you."

Sitting on the edge of the desk, Jeff looks down at him. Sighs again. "Where's Marisa? What's going on?"

It's the genuine distress in Jeff's voice that gets to Jeremy, finally. "She's... uh. She. She doesn't even normally come. You don't like her."

"She's fine," Jeff says automatically, which is what he always says.

Jeremy laughs and closes his eyes. "Not really. She took some pills, tried to kill herself."

"Shit. Jer." The desk creaks as Jeff leans forward, his hand settling on Jeremy's shoulder. Tentative, like he thinks Jeremy can't take it, which Jeremy isn't sure he can. "I'm sorry."

Jeremy swallows convulsively, his eyes still closed and burning like hell. "Yeah," he says, when he can trust his voice. "Yeah."

After a long minute, Jeff rubs his thumb over the ball of Jeremy's shoulder, squeezes once, and lets him go. Jeremy swallows again to keep back the awful sound that wants to creep out.

"So," Jeff says. "Misha."

"Mm." Carefully, Jeremy blinks his eyes open and lets the chair slide back upright. One of the stacks of papers on Jeff's desk nearly tilts off; Jeremy catches it and scowls. "You might want to think about filing once in a while. And why do you always have to sit over me? Is this an executive thing?"

With a fond look, Jeff stands. "Where'd you get him?"

"Oh, y'know, the pound. Couldn't help it. It was the big sad eyes." At Jeff's snort, Jeremy risks a grin. It almost works. "No, he was Price's."

"Vincent Price? He died?"

"Yeah, sorry, you were too busy sucking face with Jensen." Jeremy absently shuffles Jeff's papers into a stack. "Though he is pretty. Prettier now that you got him to eat something. How'd you do that, by the way? Misha's skinny, I could use tips. Recipes or something."

"Focus," Jeff drawls, whapping Jeremy away from his stuff. "And stop that, or Jensen'll get on you. He has a system."

"Ooh." When Jeff gives him a look, Jeremy rolls his eyes. "Fine, okay, you're the big head top of the universe. We all know. Anyway, Misha's... a little banged up. Bad knee. Aphasia."

Jeff winces. "Fuck, I remember now. That car accident. He's all right otherwise, though? I mean, I'm sure Cate knows some neurologists."

"He uses sign." Jeremy folds his arms before he can try to arrange Jeff's desk again. "He's really something. Stubborn."

"Hm," which is a noise Jeff makes while he waits for someone to hang themselves. Or-- okay, it's a bad choice of words. When Jeremy doesn't rise to the bait, Jeff nods and moves on. "You should bring him over for dinner or something."

"I did. He's downstairs. Waiting." Jeremy raises his eyebrows. "Can I go? Are we done?"

"We're done when you say. I'm not... this isn't an interrogation." Hunching his shoulders and putting both hands in his pockets, like he does when he's uncomfortable, Jeff peers at him. "I wanted to see if you're okay."

"I'm okay," Jeremy says, without his intended sarcasm. "It's okay, Jeff. You're not my keeper."

"I'm not," Jeff agrees, but keeps watching him. "You look tired."

"I don't sleep great lately." Raking a hand through his hair, Jeremy shrugs. "It happens. I'll take care of it."

"You take lousy care of yourself, sweetheart." And that gentleness in Jeff's voice undoes Jeremy's common sense, making him shiver a little and drop his head like all the weight of years rests on him. The floor creaks as Jeff shifts closer. "You always have."

It'd be so much easier to get out from under this stupid pining crush if Jeff didn't say things like that, and if Jeremy didn't remember the weight of Jeff's hand on his scruff urging him down to the floor. Jeff's trying to be kind, and Jeremy can't help thinking about the burn of denim on his lips, about putting his mouth on Jeff's cock.

"Yeah," Jeremy mutters, "and I took such great care of her, right?"

Jeff pauses, considering that, putting his words together. Careful now. "You can't help what she did, man, she just... she's sick."

And Jeff's lived to become a hypocrite, if that's his advice. Jeremy coughs out a laugh that hurts his chest, his throat. He doesn't cry, he's never needed to, but he'd do it if that would stop the ache. Instead he sits here numb, laughing until it's a stupid hiccup.

"Hey now," Jeff murmurs, coming forward that last step to put his hands on Jeremy's arms, kneeling painfully down to see his face. "Oof. Hey."

"You're gonna get stuck," Jeremy accuses, but he doesn't move away.

Jeff squint-smiles up at him. "S'okay. You'll help me up."

"Yeah," Jeremy sighs. "Yeah. You know I will."


	16. Chapter 16

Misha does not care for this awkwardness.

Jeremy is still gone somewhere in this unfamiliar house. His knee hurts, and he does not know these people who are gathered by the lush spread of food laid out on a long skinny table. Granted, he doesn't know Denis or Gina (or, arguably, Jeremy himself) but at least they're not strangers.

Once, he would have worked the room as a bodyslave. As an educated man. He'd charm and dissemble and in some cases verbally seduce. Unfortunately, that was when he could speak; how many of these people are likely to understand him? It's harder here to tell slave from free, which means it's harder to guess who is more likely to speak sign. Frustrating.

So in lieu of being charming, he sits and he observes. He tries to keep his expression blank; if this is bothering him, it will be worse to let others know it. He's allergic to pity.

This is what he observes:  
\- Zach watches for Jeremy as much as Misha does.  
\- The short, long-haired man (who Misha hears Wendy call 'Kane') carries himself like he'd be okay in a fight. He speaks coarsely in his rough accented voice but he offers to hold Wendy's drink. That seems to be chivalry rather than ulterior motive.  
\- The handsome older woman ('Sam', which probably means Samantha) carves the turkey and watches like a hawk to see who eats what. She keeps glancing over at Misha; Misha stares blandly back, and she looks away.  
\- Wendy carries a few hundred pictures of Ryzer on a little electronic doodad on her keychain. Sam seems pleased to look at the newest photos; Kane looks like he'd rather be chewing tinfoil, but he doesn't excuse himself.  
\- There are vegetarian options on the buffet, but no one seems to be vegetarian.  
\- Wendy asks after someone named 'Jensen', who is at therapy. Misha wonders if it's as bad as Marisa, or just one's everyday neurosis.  
\- Zach acts like a man who spent a lot of time in this house, with these people. He and Kane orbit each other like boxers who trained together, and Zach touches Sam easily, casually, if less romantically than he touches his wife. When it comes to that, Zach only has eyes for Wendy; he watches her like someone stupid with affection.  
\- Jeff has a small bookshelf full of sci-fi tucked discreetly by the window. Misha doubts that this is the library Jeremy told him was "amazing," unless Jeremy has low expectations.

It isn't up to his normal standards for fact-finding, but this isn't normal. Vincent usually briefed him before parties, so Misha knew the usual suspects even if an unknown showed up in the form of a date or an escort. This? All he knows is that these people are friendly with Jeff (if not each other, which seems more and more likely) and that they tolerate football.

Football. Ugh. Misha had memorized the important teams and the sport pages, but when it came to discussions about the actual game, he'd let others do the talking. He doesn't even remember who's playing tonight--

Wendy sits down beside Misha with a grace that says 'finishing school', though she does not cross her legs, and hands him a plate full of food. "Here. I got you a little of everything."

Misha stares at her for a full minute before remembering himself. _Thank you,_ he signs. When she nods serenely and starts forking up turkey, he adds, _I am fine._

"I have no doubt." Wendy puts the fork in her mouth and hums. "God, this is great. Anytime I cook turkey, it ends up dry as dust. It's amazing Zach didn't lose twenty pounds the first few months we were married, until he finally convinced me that I didn't need to cook just because I'm the free one, y'know?"

Misha gave her his best 'why the hell are you telling me this?' look. Wendy looks right back, and tells him, "Eat your turkey, honey."

Misha eats his turkey. It is great, actually, tender and mild; his stomach snarls, reminded that he hasn't eaten much since the funeral. Since before, even, because sometimes people forgot he was in there with Vincent beside the sick-bed and he'd hurt too bad to keep much down. Now, though, the food in front of him smells so good it makes the fork shake a little in his hands.

He wants to shovel it down. Instead he takes measured, polite bites. He's distracted enough that he doesn't realize that Wendy is still sitting in the chair next to his. The quiet should be awkward, or at the least rude, but Wendy seems content enough to watch Kane and Zach on the couch, their heads bent studiously together over a guitar.

When the plate is empty, Misha regretfully sets his fork down and jumps a little at Wendy's, "you still hungry?"

This woman is offering to fetch and carry for him. Misha can't decide if he's more embarrassed or angry, or some heady mix of both. He thinks he keeps his expression blank, but Wendy snorts. "Okay, you can be proud and get up and make that knee hurt worse, or I can get you another plate."

Misha doesn't want to apologize to her; she fucked his... she fucked Jeremy, and now she's acting like Misha's got some kind of infirmity. But he still signs, if one can sign tersely, _sorry._

"You aren't. Or at least I wouldn't be. I cussed out a lot of people for doing this crap while I was knocked up, but I still learned to park my ass and deal. You like the turkey best, I see, but you want anything else?"

Grudgingly, Misha signs, _brownies, please. And sweet potatoes._

"Bless," Wendy says, and fetches for him.

When she comes back with his plate, they share another few minutes of awkwardness. Finally, as Misha tries to surreptitiously sniff for the green of pot in the brownie, Wendy tells him, "It gets easier."

Misha puts the brownie down, folds his hands, and gives her his best 'I'm listening but I'm not your therapist' face.

She nods at the others, still clustered by the food. "Tough to be the new person in this crowd even when you're the girlfriend. Not even a slave. And with Lord Price--"

Misha hisses through his teeth without thinking, rejecting her sympathy.

"Yes," Wendy says, with the air of someone who walked around many easily bruised prides, "just so. Anyway. It'll get easier, that's all."

Misha does not need to be friends with these people. He doesn't need her reassurances. He can feel his shoulders up around his ears, so he rolls them back and tries to maintain a blank posture. _Thank you,_ he signs again, and adds mentally, now please go away.

"Yeah." Standing with her plate, Wendy absently brushes off invisible crumbs. "Jeremy doesn't like to need people, either."

Once she's gone, Misha takes a bite of the brownie. It seems to be safe. He's still eating it in small precise bites when Jeremy lopes back into the room, flushed but looking easier than he's been all morning. It's a bittersweet victory that Jeremy stops by him first, flopping into the seat Wendy just left. "Hey," Jeremy says breathlessly, and rummages around in his jacket until he comes up with Misha's painkillers. "You look like you could use one of these. Anything exciting happen?"

Jeremy is not Vincent, to expect intelligence reports. Misha just shrugs and resists the urge to lean hard against Jeremy's side.


	17. Chapter 17

_It's a cold night, and a bitter one, and the wind slices fast across the roof. His senses are thick with the scent of curry from the restaurant he lives above, feeding his mind. He can live like this, scent and numbers-- why would he eat? No, food lays heavy in his gut, food weighs him down and makes him slow. Makes his blood like oil sludge instead of music. He's running cleaner, needing less. Which is more food for the sick, more food for the world, and that right there, he's solved world hunger._

_He laughs, and it's harsh as the cawing of a crow, and it echoes over the edge of the roof. The edge, it's not high, but it feels like he can see the whole wide flat city through the buildings in his way. He can see through the offices and the freeways and the concrete to the sick, beating heart of his city, crooning to him in a lullaby of traffic noises, curving out in spirals like Fibonacci's sequence, coaxing him. Telling him baby, please, baby you can fly._

_The roof is high enough. He has to seem committed. He's light and high, no longer weighed down by food or sleep or clothes or hair, that was the hardest, his electric razor humming reassurances against his prickling scalp, but he's ready now he's ready--_

_"Jer." And Jeff is just there, silent as a cat, close behind Jeremy. He has a nightrobe (Jeremy's hair still clings to it like a dark wounded thing) and a wary look, he must've heard the asphalt lying, he must've called. His voice sounds funny, choked and tight. "Hey, sweetheart. Why don't you come on down from there?"_

_"Jeff," the words blurt out funny over his dry tongue, "I know the numbers now, I know how to count faster than gravity!"_

_"I know you do." Jeff inches forward and holds out his hand. "So why don't you come down and teach me?"_

_"I. I don't."_

_"It's okay, baby. I know. Just stay with me."_

_When Jeff finally touches him, Jeremy realizes that he's cold._

It's Misha who wakes him, again, and Misha who he woke. Jeremy doesn't remember shying away from Misha's hand, putting his back against the wall, but he must have because that's where he is now. The wall is solid, comforting, and he's sick with sweat. Trembling everywhere.

Trauma. It never gets old, and it never heals over.

 _Jeremy,_ Misha fingerspells solemnly, his expression anxious. _Are you here?_

It'd be easy to play that off, ask where else he could possibly be, but his mouth is too dry to speak. He swallows, swallows, fixing his eyes on the collar of Misha's pajamas. A different set, this time, burgundy instead of blue but just as ridiculously staid. There's a pocket on the chest, like somebody might need to keep some pens in there for bed. Jeremy's sure there are good reasons for night-time pockets, but he can't think of any himself. If he's out of his suit, he's naked.

Until Misha.

His breaths are hiccuping loud in his lungs, like he's been sobbing in his sleep. (He doesn't do that. He doesn't tear up, he doesn't wail or sniffle or do any of that. Never has. His baby sister Meadow cried loud and forlorn over Bambi's dead mom, and Jeremy stole her popcorn.) Misha frowns, and squirms a little closer, and lays his hand on Jeremy's chest. He mirrors that, his other hand on his own chest, and breathes deep-slow-calm. If he's freaked out at his owner's damage, it doesn't show on his face. After a moment of deep breathing, waiting for Jeremy to catch on, he presses his palm harder against Jeremy's chest and wrinkles his nose like what, are you slow?

Jeremy chokes out a laugh and that's it, he has to let the panic slip away. He has to breathe, snagged on Misha's blue blue eyes.

After a few minutes pass like that, Misha nods and lets the hand on his own chest fall away. He doesn't move to let go of Jeremy, though he brushes imaginary dust off Jeremy like he's a little embarrassed. He doesn't ask what that was, which is one up on Marisa, but he doesn't turn the light off and go back to sleep either.

"So, uh," Jeremy says. "Hey. How about that local sports team?"

Misha makes that dry, scoffing sound that might be his laugh. It's kind of endearing, whatever it means. Finally taking his hand back, he signs, _I was up anyway._

"Oh. Your knee?" From the mangled wreck shown on the X-ray, Jeremy's not surprised.

Looking sheepish, Misha shrugs. His eyes look bruised, though, and there's white around his mouth. Jeff had looked like that after he wrecked his knee, when he needed to take something but was too stubborn to do it.

"You know you don't have to stay in here with me, if you don't want." Casual, Jeremy grabs the painkillers and shook two out in his hand so he can hold them out. "I always feel more-- I dunno, restless?-- laying around, trying to go back to sleep."

From Misha's dour expression, the casual bullshit doesn't work. But he takes them, and the water Jeremy offers after, and signs, _you're awake now._

"Yeah, guilty. You want me to entertain you?" 

Misha shrugs again, but there's a devil-shine in his eyes. _Until drugs and reason kick in._

Jeremy laughs, despite himself. "You'll be waiting a while. Didn't you notice?"

Canting his head to one side, Misha hesitates, then signs, _I notice more than you think._

Well, yes. Jeremy had kind of learned that. "You're clever," he says, mimicking Bonham-Carter's accent: dry and clipped as a dead herb garden. "Too clever for me. But I didn't take you on to be my, I dunno, weapon. My spy."

Misha's eyes crease at the corner, like the first scouts of crow's feet. Vincent's dying has aged him, but it's only made him more striking. _You have to wait until after midnight to be honest?_

Jeremy lets Misha see him wince. "I figured we understood each other. Sorry. I say things that don't need to be said, but I leave too much out, too. I'm working on it."

Another huffing almost-laugh. _Then why did you take me on? Why am I here?_

"Christ, it's too late to get existential, Misha." Dragging a hand through his tangled-up hair, Jeremy looks away. Thinks. Why did he get involved in this? Why did he invite trouble? Because he needed a bodyslave. Because Misha needed saving, and Jeremy saves people like it's going out of style. Because he needed to feel useful. It's all too pathetic to say out loud. Finally, he settles on, "I guess I wanted to give you some space to figure that out yourself."

Misha taps his ankle, politely. When Jeremy looks at him again, Misha signs with great deliberation, _that's bullshit._

It's enough to yank Jeremy out of his self-pity. He shrugs at Misha, gives him a crooked smile. "Yeah. But that's what I've got right now."

For a moment, Misha digests that. Then he signs, _do you have cards? I play baccarat._

"Like James Bond does?" From Misha's flashbulb quick grin, that's on target. Jeremy laughs, for real this time, and goes for the rubberband-wrapped deck he keeps for insomniac solitaire. "What, Vincent thought poker was too vulgar?"

 _Yes._ Misha leans towards him, an eager light in his eyes. _I can learn. Will you teach me?_

"Dude, please, I'm not allowed to play with my-- with our crew, after I won too much imaginary money." Fanning the deck out between them, Jeremy beams. "I'll teach you everything I know."


	18. Chapter 18

"No, I'm sorry." Jane shakes her head, with that particular sad firmness that makes Jeremy hate most shrinks. The regret that says it's really too bad that Jeremy sets the bar for most fucked up idiot around, though of course they can't tell you about that because of confidentiality and--

Jeremy breathes around the burning lump in his chest, and forces his hands to stop twitching behind his back. He wants Marisa almost childishly, wants to whine that no, he needs her-- or that, more terrifying, he's finding out that he doesn't. Misha is like a drink of clear cold water, necessary and soothing, and Marisa...

He loves her. He does.

"Is she okay?" Jeremy asks, instead of mewling about it.

Jane pastes on a smile that means no. "Yes, of course, she's progressing well. She's just tired right now, and vulnerable--"

"I'm her boyfriend, what do you think I'm going to do, exactly--"

"I don't know," Jane asks, frowning now even as she's trying to project calm. What comes easy to Cate isn't working for her. "What would you do? Make her hurt you again?"

Silence drops between them like a stone.

Jeremy's mouth feels numb, but he manages to say, "What?"

Jane has the grace to look embarrassed, but not sorry. "Things come up in therapy."

For a second, Jeremy seriously considers hitting her. That more than anything says how bad it's gotten; he doesn't hit women, and he knows what comes of scaring shrinks. He flexes his fingers, then laces them behind his back. "Then they ought to stay in therapy. Or has that rule changed since my last round of double-speak, doctor?"

Her mouth pinches shut. "If you're referring to confidentiality, I assure you--"

"I'm assured. Can I see her or not?" Not that he knows what the hell he'll say to her now. Hopefully she's enough herself not to talk about sex in group. Jesus, to not talk about the Trust in group. Another fear he doesn't need. They kept Marisa out of some things, because of her disinterest and because Jeremy's friends generally dislike her and because she's not always herself; Jeremy harbors a quiet paranoia that they don't consult him on everything for that last reason, though he doubts Jeff would do that to him. He hopes so, anyway. But Marisa knows enough to take them all down, if she talks.

"Not at this time," Jane says, after a moment of visibly returning herself to the template of competent therapist. She even smooths her hair back behind the shell of her ear. "She needs space and time to heal. She needs to be away from her normal... situation."

Fuck you too, Jeremy thinks, but keeps his mouth shut. He hopes Marisa will, too.

****

In his hurry to get out, Jeremy nearly trips over the bench where he left Misha. Which is a shitty thing to do, really, but he's not ready for the collision of Misha and Marisa. Not yet-- and, thinking helplessly of them as two white stars being drawn together by the hungry black hole of his sickness-- not ever.

Misha peers up at him, assessing, then grabs his cane like he's going to beat someone to death with it. That doesn't at all jive with the courtly, old-fashioned nod he gives the woman who's shoved at the other side of the bench like she's waiting for a bus. Or, judging from how goddamn awful she looks, waiting for the Reaper. The woman flicks Misha a distracted look, mostly watching her kid (Jesus, her poor fucking kid) poke interestedly at the weeds growing between cracks in the sidewalk. Her eyes trip over Jeremy's face, then freeze there.

Jeremy doesn't recognize her. Not at first, not until she self-consciously fumbles a hand up to her destroyed hair.

"Robin?" Jeremy says cautiously, ready to dodge the swing of her purse.

Robin presses her dry lips together, then nods. "Hello, Jeremy."

Misha lowers himself slowly back onto the bench, watching them both. Jeremy can almost hear the tick of Misha's mind, like the turning of an intricate and accurate clock.

"Uh." Jeremy crouches by Misha, balancing himself with a hand on Misha's good knee. He feels simultaneously like he needs to be lower than Robin to avoid shattering her brittle body, and like he needs to guard Misha from her. "Hey? I thought you were in Arizona."

Robin snorts. "Safety in distance? Or are you still trying to be Jeff's guard dog?"

And yeah, that's definitely Robin. Jeremy doesn't think his grip tightens on Misha, but he feels Misha tense beneath his hand. "That's Kane," Jeremy says with a lightness he doesn't feel, and gets back up to his feet. "Should I be worried anyway?"

"That depends," Robin says, obviously hedging. "Anyway, do you know how to get in touch with him?"

"I'm not his fucking secretary," Jeremy snaps, unthinking.

The kid looks up from playing in the dirt, alarmed, and inches back into Robin. An almost visceral memory hits Jeremy of being that small, dusty from the grounds outside his dad's ashram, and he wishes like hell he could swallow his last few words. "Mom?" the kid pipes up, looking up at Robin through his messy hair. How old is he, three? Robin sure as hell didn't waste time getting back on the horse. "Is Lexi almost here yet? Can we go?"

Wonderful; now Jeremy's terrorizing small children.

"Almost, honey." Stroking the kid's hair back, Robin tries to smile for him. The effect is grotesque, her fear tangled up with how sick she clearly is. "Lexi's off her shift soon, and you two can go to lunch."

The kid frowns, not reassured, and adds a little whine. "'M hungry."

"Well, I'm sorry, Bodhi," Robin says, with more patience than Jeremy thought she had. "You'll just have to wait."

The kid (Bodhi?) looks down, scuffing his shoes on the concrete.

"Hey, uh." Awkward, Jeremy nods at his laptop bag, which Misha insisted on watching. "I'm sure I've got a Snickers or something."

Bodhi's head tilts a little, obviously listening, but he doesn't look up.

"Yes, Jeremy," Robin says dryly. "Please teach my son to accept candy from strangers. No, we're fine. But here." Nearly dumping her purse in her haste to get rid of him, Robin rummages until she comes up with a business card and a pen. She scrawls out a number in the local area code on the back and pushes it at Jeremy. "Give this to him when you see him."

There's no question of who 'he' is, or that Jeremy will come to Jeff's heel.

"Yeah, all right." Jeremy starts to put the card away, but Misha snags it with his nimble fingers and makes it disappear. Left at loose ends, Jeremy puts his hands in his pockets. "Might not be tomorrow. Or even this week."

"Fine." There's a disquieting relief to Robin's voice, awkward for both of them. Then Robin clears her throat and coughs roughly into the back of her arm. "Don't lose that."

"I'm not completely unreliable. Only mostly." Jeremy hesitates, knowing this isn't going to go well, knowing he has to do it anyway. "Do you need some--"

Robin gives him a look. Sick as she is, her banked anger scorches him.

"Right." Rubbing the back of his neck, Jeremy nods. "Right, okay. I'll... do the thing. With the note. Bye, Bodhi."

Bodhi gives him a sidelong look, eerily like Robin's, then tells Misha, "Bye. I like your bo."

 _Like Donatello,_ Misha signs, painstakingly fingerspelling each letter of the name. Jeremy isn't sure if he's more surprised that the kid reads Misha's fingers and grins, or that the Ninja Turtles are back in vogue. Fuck, he's getting old. Then Misha is levering himself up with the cane, leaning away from Jeremy's attempt to help, and they're headed to the car.

(Later, Jeremy doesn't think to tell Jeff about the kid.)

***

Traffic drags the car to a sluggish standstill on their way home. Of course. Jeremy can feel a headache gathering behind one eye, dragged across the thorns of light reflecting off bumpers and the stink of emissions. Listening to Marisa's mix CD (all Lilith Fair, all the time) is a masochistic twist.

After a moment of sitting in this improvised parking lot, Misha reaches out and turns off Carly Simon.

"Hey," Jeremy says without much heat.

Ignoring him, Misha signs, _how is Marisa?_

"Y'know. Still crazy." Jeremy drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "She wasn't up for visitors."

 _I assumed so, since you came back so fast._ Misha tactfully doesn't say that she could've just kicked Jeremy out. _Who was the woman?_

"Who, Robin?" Scuffing out a laugh he doesn't feel, Jeremy lets his head thump back against the seat. "Long fucking story. She's one of Jeff's old girlfriends."

_That's not a long story._

"Yeah, but it ended like a train wreck. She skipped town on him mid-breakup." Bitch, Jeremy almost adds like a hiccup, and swallows it in the wake of Jane's disapproval. Is she right? Did he do damage to Marisa by asking her to-- no, he can't figure that out now. He doesn't want to think about it.

Snapping his fingers once to draw Jeremy's attention, Misha asks, _and now she wants to contact him? She could call him._

"She could. She just doesn't want to bother talking to him more than she has to. So I'm the cruise manager on the Titanic." Suddenly irritated beyond measure, Jeremy thumps the heel of his hand on the steering wheel. "Fuck, I don't need this!"

Misha shrugs. _So don't tell him._

"Yeah," Jeremy says with no conviction. He knows better. "Right."

Jeremy. It's funny, how his name looks at the tips of Misha's long elegant fingers. Misha is frowning at him. _Does he have something on you? Is there something I need to know?_

Like an asshole, Jeremy forgot exactly where Misha came from. He doesn't know the specifics of the games Vincent ran, but he knows they were much more complicated and messy than his own. Which is hysterical, considering the house of cards that's the Trust. "No," he says slowly, then sighs. "Yeah. Some things. But not about Jeff and me. We're just... we have history. It's complicated."

Misha quirks an eyebrow.

Despite the anchor in his chest, Jeremy laughs. It sounds a little cracked. "Okay. Maybe not that complicated."


	19. Chapter 19

He brings Marisa flowers; that's the most humiliating thing Jeremy remembers about it. Like some love-struck kid he never actually was, he springs for flowers and a vase (shatterproof) and everything. White daisies, simple and clean. It's never a good idea to get Marisa anything the color of blood.

Somehow he manages not to see Jane on his way into Applewood. He snags a nurse, instead, a tall thin woman with dyed blue hair. The blue makes him feel a little better about the place. She doesn't fill the walk down to Marisa with inane chatter, instead eating up the hall with her long strides. Almost as long as Jeremy's own. Jeremy's fingers sweat against the slick plastic surface of the vase; he wishes he didn't leave Misha at home, even if that was his own decision and the only real way to avoid the detonation of Mar's temper.

It's quiet in the little therapy room, no yelling and no objects thrown against the door. Reassuring. The nurse unlocks the room, flicks Jeremy a look over her shoulder, and then calls, "Ryan? You up for visitors?"

Marisa asks a muffled question. The nurse says, "Yeah, it's him," and Marisa is silent for a moment. Later, Jeremy remembers this; this; at the time, he drums his fingers against the vase. He has an appointment that evening. He's thinking of other things.

The nurse steps aside to let him in the room. Marisa is seated, dwarfed in a ratty nightrobe. She sees the flowers and her mouth draws thin. She looks like she's more with it than she's been; he feels a fatal lurch of hope.

"C'mere and sit down," Marisa says, her voice hoarse from talking. Group therapy, maybe, or she's screaming in her sleep again. He wonders, not without guilt, who's talking her down in the middle of the night. She doesn't have a Misha; he doesn't think she's even asked whether he got a slave to cover for her while she's treated.

(If she cares, some part of him adds, bitterly.)

They have to meet sometime, preferably before Marisa comes home and finds Misha in their bed. Better to give her time to adjust to the idea. So why is his voice locked inside his throat?

Her voice gentling, Marisa repeats, "Sit down."

Jeremy comes to the shitty little table and sits down, putting the vase between them like a chess-board. Marisa runs her thumb over the fragile petals of the daisy; there's a groove worn in the pad, like she's been writing letters, a smudge of lead from the pencil. Once she sees that she's turning the white to gray, she grimaces and drops her hand to the table. She doesn't try to touch him.

"This is hard," she says to herself.

Cracking a smile, Jeremy says, "That's what she said."

At least she laughs, erasing the worry lines around her mouth. "That was an old line at Stonehenge."

"You know me. I like the classics."

Her expression darkens, as if drawn towards the event horizon of her silence. In seconds, she looks like a woman who never laughs. She puts her hand out, palm up; the scar on her inner wrist winds like a river on a map. Jeremy strokes the scar with his thumb before he takes her hand.

"You've been so kind to me," Marisa says. Her words sound practiced. Too careful. Later, he hates himself for not seeing it coming. "Nothing but kind. No, don't shrug, you know it's true."

"It's not--" Jeremy swallows, looks at their joined hands. "It's not like that. You don't have to-- you're a person."

"I'm a slave," she says, not unkindly.

"Not to me."

She scoffs. "Thanks, Jer. That's very guilty liberal of you. Right up there with 'I don't think you're like those other Jews'."

Jeremy winces. "That's not exactly fair."

"It's true, though." Marisa squeezes his hand once, a little too hard to be just comfort. "You've been around Jeff too long. He rubs off on people like you."

Jeremy can't hone the sharp edge off his voice. "People like me. Crazy or queer? Or just weak?"

"People half in love with him."

Stung, Jeremy takes his hand back. "It's not like that."

Marisa lifts an eyebrow. "Bullshit it isn't. He's been the other man for a long time."

"That'll be news to Zach."

"Jeff's the one who's got your heart in a jar on his desk--"

"Wow, hey, thanks for the creepy metaphor." Jeremy stands. "This is going to be 20 rounds of you poking at old wounds, so I'm gonna go. I'll see you tomorrow, okay? I--"

"There's someone else for me," Marisa says.

Jeremy doesn't remember dropping back into the chair, but when his brain returns from its short vacation, he's sitting across from her again. He tries to school his expression back into careful blankness, but it's not working. His mouth is shaking.

"When?" he asks finally, his voice like a scrape of a knife being sharpened. "Who?"

Marisa looks away from him, tucking her hair behind the shell of her ear. "Scott. Six months."

Scott. Scott with his sleazy smile and his pills. Fuck, Jeremy did his fucking taxes this year. Slumping back in the chair, Jeremy says too quietly, "I can't believe you did that."

Marisa's mouth twists. "Don't you act so high and mighty. You fuck Zach and Wendy, and--"

"That's different, Mar, you knew about that, I asked if you were okay with--"

"-- and she doesn't even like me!"

"Jesus." Jeremy covers his face with one hand. "Jesus Christ. Okay. Okay. I'm sorry. Let's just..."

With a sigh that seems to well from deep inside her, to take the life out of her, Marisa turns to watch him. Part of Jeremy wants to say she looks satisfied by the scene, but that's only his pettiness talking; she just looks exhausted and sick.

"Okay," Jeremy says, aware he's saying it to fill up the quiet. "Scott. We can work that out. We can set up... fuck, a lunch or something? We can talk about whether he wants to use condoms or fluid bond or whatever. We--"

Marisa shakes her head, slowly. "Baby," she says, and it's the most tender she's ever sounded. "No."

His chest hitches once. He should shut up, he should stop, but he feels like chased a car and caught the bumper and is clinging now at 60 mph. "Fine, okay, you can go to him whenever, you can do whatever you want. You don't even have to tell me. Just come home, okay? I--"

"Jeremy." All the sadness in the world is in her voice. "No. It's over."

Jeremy's pulse is drumming in his ears. He stops looking at her face and stares at the flowers instead. They're pretty but they're dying without the ground.

Funny, but he didn't think his heart could be broken anymore.

"Tell the hospital I've still got the bill," he says, and he leaves her before she can get scared.

***

He doesn't remember driving home.

He shouldn't be driving. He should call somebody to come get him.

He doesn't know who to call, or who he could count on to come.

He drives himself.

***

The house is quiet when he gets back. Jeremy closes the door behind him and hangs his keys up, very carefully, because he thinks the clatter of them into the change dish would break him. Surface tension is holding him now, trembling above the edge of the cup, ready to spill.

"Jeremy?" Gina calls from the kitchen. "Hey, love, I made muffins."

He ignores her. Goes upstairs. Winston meets him at the top, waving his tail like a flag, and doesn't resist when Jeremy scoops him up. There have been other times that Jeremy's crated him in the upstairs bathroom, and so Winston is resigned rather than curious. Jeremy rubs the top of his head, tells him he's a good boy.

The bedroom door is open. Misha is curled up there, cat-like, absorbed enough in his book that he doesn't hear Jeremy pass by on his way to the office.

Jeremy goes into the office and shuts the door. There's a chair for his clients; he wedges it under the knob and locks the door. He removes the flash drive from his computer, all of his clients' information, and slips it under the door. He's crazy, not stupid, although it occurs to him that he doesn't care too much if the drive is crushed beneath someone's careless step.

With that done, he destroys everything.

There's no fury in it; he's methodical, deepening circles of calm around his pounding heart. He just breaks it all, less and less quietly, because it's better than what he really wants to do.

It takes some time before he's finished. He tunes out and lets the darkness in, the violence that he wants to do and can't, the secrets and the mess and the chaos in his head. He goes away because he'd rather be somewhere else, somewhere that his heart is intact.

When he comes back, it's because he runs out of things to break. There's not even enough left around him to try to reconstruct. His hands bristle with splinters, slick with sweat and blood. Someone is thudding their shoulder into the door, a repetitive driving beat punctuated by Denis cursing.

Right. They probably think he's dangling from the rafters. Jeremy hates how little that bothers him, beneath the numbness of shock. He goes and opens the door, then catches Denis before he can get a shoulder in the throat.

Denis shakes him off, but not before a second where he leans into Jeremy's hands. Jeremy knows where Denis thinks he would go if Jeremy died; never mind that Jeremy's told him they'll all go to Jeff in case of his untimely (increasingly likely) death. And yeah, now he feels that guilt he expected.

"Hey, man," Denis says, brusque. "Hey. Should I call Zach?"

Zach, Jeremy thinks, I should've thought of calling Z. Automatically, he looks for Winston and finds him in Gina's arms, far above the mess. Jeremy says in a dry croak, "Careful, there's glass."

"No shit," Denis snarks. "Z?"

Jeremy shakes his head no.

Denis looks like he's going to yell for a minute, and then someone else is taking Jeremy from him. Just latching on, like this is natural as gravity, and leading him from the wreckage. Jeremy takes a few slow ( _manic you know you're manic_ ) seconds to recognize Misha, and then to be horrified by doing this to the poor guy in his first week, but Misha seems unfazed. He guides Jeremy to the bathroom and turns the tap on, then signs, _first aid kit?_

"Under the sink," Jeremy says. Thank fuck he restocked it after Ryzer started toddling around, knocking his head into things, and if Jeremy has to wear Sponge Bob bandaids, he deserves it. "I'm sorry."

Misha flicks a look at him, serious blue eyes seeing deeper than Jeremy really wants. He wets the washcloth and wipes the sweat off Jeremy's face, gentle as if he's dealing with a child. Jeremy blinks.

 _I'm sure the desk started it,_ Misha signs, and starts picking the splinters out of Jeremy's hands.


	20. Chapter 20

It takes Jeremy time to think past his own broken heart. Of all the unforgivable things that rattle around his skull at any given time, he hates that one the most.

He’s crunching numbers for a secondhand friend of Cate’s, Erik, because the meeting was at his house and he’d work even if he was coughing up blood on his deathbed, when the monotony lets the depression clear enough for him to think: did Marisa use a condom?

He doesn’t know.

Is Scott clean? Is he the only guy Marisa fucked?

He doesn’t know.

Didn’t Scott used to have syringes in his desk drawer?

Yes. Syringes tucked in among the stolen pens and paperclips. Scott’s quick glance at Jeremy’s face, his crooked ‘just us chickens’ grin. Fucker. Unlikely he kicked the habit in the last few months. Unlikely that he used clean needles.

It’s a short trip from that brutal kick in the nuts to realize that if Scott infected Marisa with anything, then Jeremy would’ve passed it along to anybody he--

Zach. Wendy.

Jeremy fumbles his pencil, plastic clattering loudly against the top of his kitchen table. At the noise, Misha swivels in the chair where he’s been reading. Since Jeremy wrecked his office, Misha hasn’t let Jeremy out of his line of sight-- and yeah, Jeremy feels guilty for that, too.

Glancing up from his rubber-banded stack of receipts, Erik-who-Cate-knows asks, “You okay, dude?”

“Yes,” Jeremy says automatically, because it’s what he always says. Then, with the sinking realization that he’s going to have to tell Zach about this whole clusterfuck, “No. Uh, sorry. Headache’s creeping up on me.”

Misha tilts his head, his eyes searching on Jeremy’s face. Jeremy tries not to look at him. Glaring at his slaves: another bit of bad karma. 

“I get that. If you don’t mind me saying, man, you kind of look like shit.” Erik waggles the receipts like a scolding mother’s finger. “Listen, this tax stuff isn’t due until March. How about I just leave it and we can set up another meeting?”

“Sure,” Jeremy says, but there’s no relief. He’d rather be working out twenty years of back-taxes on an abacus than doing the right thing. “Thanks, Mr. Palladino.”

When Erik swings a hand out, Jeremy nearly flinches out of his skin, but it’s only a friendly swat on the shoulder. Erik has a network of scars on his knuckles, from his apparently checkered past in MMA; Jeremy hopes Erik thinks he’s a pussy, not that he’s a victim. “Erik. And don’t worry about it. My ma gets headaches. You come around my house and play some poker, we’ll call it even.”

“Cate’s telling tales out of school?”

Smile dimming, Erik shakes his head. “Uh. Vincent, actually.” To Misha, he adds, “Sorry for your loss. He was a good man.”

Misha shrugs inelegantly, as if he can’t speak to Vincent being good or otherwise, and signs, _Thank you. He's missed._

Another kick in Jeremy’s guilt complex, which he tries to absorb without changing expression.

Jeremy manages a thin smile. “We can set up a time for a game. Misha’s learned some dirty tricks already.”

 _Not dirty,_ Misha signs. _I can read you, that’s all._

From the coolly level look in his eyes, they’re not just talking about poker.

****

The mirror in Jeremy’s master bathroom was a back-alley find, pockmarked and slightly warped from some vast heat. He likes it that way, because if he stands in the right place, he doesn’t have to meet his own eyes. This time, for all his superstitious posing to keep his eyes in the holes in the mirror, he can still see the raccoon circles of his insomnia.

He remembers being given the AZT in that shitty free clinic in Arizona, that he tasted the guard’s dick again every time he choked down a pill. Just until the blood-tests came back. He remembers feeling contaminated, and being so sure that he was dying that the HIV negative was like taking his first deep breath.

And he’s doing this to them. He can picture Z and Wendy in that shitty clinic, the vials of blood, the brochures with their vague wording. He’s the guard now.

Jeremy uncaps his bottle of No-Doze, the heavy kind that they sell truckers, and takes two with a swig of cold coffee. His stomach churns, though he can’t tell if it’s nerves or hunger.

He doesn’t know how to stop.

Zach picks up on the second ring, for all Jeremy’s furtive hopes that he’d get the machine. He can hear Ryzer in the background, the clatter of blocks over the washing of dishes. Domestic noises.

“Ghostbusters,” Zach drawls, “is it a mist or does it have arms and legs?”

Jeremy feels like he’s a loaded handgun in a crib. He opens his mouth to launch into his spiel of apologies, but the words lock in his throat.

“Hello?” Zach asks, then a rustle as he checks caller ID. “Jer, you’re pocket dialing again. I swear to God, we got to get you a phone that flips shut. I’m hanging up--”

“I’m sorry,” Jeremy says finally, and hates the dead sound of his stupid voice. “You and Wendy need to get tested.”

It’s not the gentlest Jeremy’s ever been.

On Zach’s end of the line, the water creaks off. Zach asks, “What did Marisa do?”

Part of Jeremy is comforted by Zach’s faith in him. Part of him is sickeningly guilty. He thumps the No-Doze down on his counter, and pills scatter everywhere. “A blood test,” Jeremy says, because he’s rolling downhill and there are no brakes. “I can make your appointment if you want.”

“I didn’t think you meant a driver’s test.”

Jeremy closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.” No. Not enough. “I’m so sorry, Z, I don’t know if she used a condom and I don’t think I’d believe her if she said she did--”

Zach exhales. Jeremy recognizes the cadence from anger management, and wonders dully if he’s going to hear Zach punch a wall. “She fu-- screwed around on you?”

The urge to make apologies for Marisa is on Jeremy’s tongue. He swallows it. “Yeah. She did.” As an afterthought, he adds, “It’s over.”

“Good,” Zach says with uncharacteristic viciousness, then softens to tell Ryzer, “C’mon, Ryzie, we’re gonna go see Uncle Jeremy.”

Ryzer wails like his kidneys were stolen, not his blocks.

“No,” Jeremy says, without meaning it to be out loud, and then realizes that he’s right. That he needs to say it again. “No, it’s-- don’t come over.”

“Dude.” That bright edge of anger in Zach’s voice gets sharper; Jeremy feels himself hunch around the expectation of a blow. “I’m not pissed at you, Jer, I’m not coming over there to take it out of your hide. We need to talk. And you sound--”

Manic. He sounds manic. “Don’t come over,” Jeremy says, and his voice sounds like he shelved his heart away. “I won’t be here.”

“--don’t hang up!”

Jeremy hangs up. Turns the phone back on, right away, before Zach can call back. He stands there for a minute listening to the drone of the dial tone, then puts the phone down on his counter. Tries to think of the word for it. Right: off the hook.

Zach lives in Pasadena. 5 minutes to get Ryzer to the car with a snack. (5 minutes. The call of the numbers is sweet to him.) That plus traffic means Jeremy has a headstart.

He doesn’t stop to grab any of his shit. It occurs to him that he should’ve at least bring his pills. Fuck it. Fuck everything.

He gets downstairs without interruption. Grabs his keys. Opens the door. 

The door slams shut again. Because his brain is already out in the car, three steps ahead and running, the sound jars Jeremy into flinching again.

Misha is standing behind him, leaning against the cane that he used to shut the door. He’s not crowding Jeremy, but the look on his face electrifies the air between them. They’re close enough that Jeremy can smell the ghost of his soap on Misha’s skin.

It scares the fuck out of Jeremy. He’s also impossibly hard. Mania is stupid.

“Misha,” Jeremy says. There’s not enough breath in his lungs. “Get off the door.”

Not tearing his eyes from Jeremy’s, Misha shakes his head. No.

Panic flutters its sharp wings in Jeremy’s chest. Run, it whispers, shove him out of the way and get out. Can’t you hear them coming for you?

Jeremy doesn’t move, even though it feels like it carves three years off his life. He says, harsher with desperation, “I need to leave.”

Misha blinks at him, and signs, _then I go with you._

Misha isn’t bending. Misha isn’t bending, and Jeremy isn’t going to push him away, and Zach is coming sooner than later.

“Fuck,” Jeremy says fervently. “Fine. Get your bag, then.”

With a funny quirk of his mouth, Misha lifts his eyebrows. Signs, _I fuck off, you bolt. Not stupid._

No. He’s really not. And he’s not afraid. Jeremy didn’t know how much he benefited from Denis (and Gina, and Marisa) being too well-trained. Another mark in red ink on his conscience.

Misha’s stare unravels Jeremy’s nerves, finally. He pushes himself off the door and goes to retrieve Misha’s bag. His hands are trembling.

When he gets back downstairs, Misha is signing something to Denis and Gina; the specifics are blocked by Gina’s body, and Misha stops when he sees Jeremy.

There’s no apology, and judging from the set of Misha’s jaw, there isn’t one on its way.

When Jeremy glances at Denis, Denis says, “I could call Cate--”

“Don’t,” Jeremy blurts, “don’t do that. Please don’t do that.”

Denis exhales through his teeth. “All right, kid, easy. I won’t do that.”

“Thanks,” Jeremy tells him, and then Gina. “Thanks.”

Gina’s eyes skid away from his. Winston is in her arms; she doesn’t shy back when Jeremy reaches out to give Winston a quick pat. It’s not like Jeremy is home enough for the dog to notice he’s missing.

Misha reaches to take his bag. Jeremy slings it over his own shoulder instead, and hauls it to the car. It seems too light to hold anybody’s entire life, but then Jeremy didn’t give Misha much time to pack.

They get in the car. Jeremy turns the key, hears the first notes of Take Another Piece of My Heart and jams his finger into the eject button on his car radio. He pitches the CD out the window, with mean satisfaction, and flips Misha’s sun-visor down to show him the gleaming folder of CDs.

“Here,” he says. “You pick something. Just not Janis Joplin, okay?”

As far as peace offerings go, it’s a shitty one. But Misha takes his time like Jeremy asked him to choose the holy grail. It keeps him from casting gun-shy looks at the speedometer.

Misha lets him drive for a few minutes, until they’re on the highway. Then he signs, as if this was a scenic drive on the Pacific Coast Highway, _where are we going?_

Jeremy tells him, “Anywhere but here.”


	21. Chapter 21

_In the master bedroom of the silent house where Vincent lays sleeping, dying, Misha gets to his feet._

_The time passed since the accident is hazy in Misha’s head, guilt and pain and the occasional narcotic; he isn’t sure how long he’s been sitting at Vincent’s bed. He grips the arm-rests of his chair, where he used to sit and organize Vincent’s pills for the week. He’s been stretching out his leg, slowly forcing the locked muscles to release in waves of sick-hot pain, until it’s extended flat with his heel against the ground._

_He reaches over to retrieve Vincent’s cane from its position beside the bed. It was a gift from Tim, and the carved handle is worn from years of use. Misha positions it, awkwardly, like a parallel line to his own body. The chair is sturdy, and there’s nothing wrong with Misha’s shoulders or his back. He pushes himself up, by degrees, and that clammy pain sweeps through his bandaged head._

_He will not throw up, he can’t pass out, they’ll hear. But he can’t stop, either. Nobody here is going to save him, and it will get worse. Of course it will get worse._

_He is upright. His first stumble sends pain up from his knee like the cartilage was replaced with ground glass._

_He whimpers, once, and sinks his teeth into his lower lip to muffle any further sound._

_Vincent’s children have been roaming the house, with no father to cow them out of poking into his things (as if they could find anything valuable or interesting), and any sound could draw their attention._

_If he had all the time in the world, he would wait to do this until he was steadier._

_Vincent’s son slapped him this morning. Vincent is not waking up and time is not on Misha’s side._

_He goes to Vincent’s bathroom, limping badly. There is a small cabinet beside the toilet, piled with signs of domestic life: faded towels, wet-wipes, molded soaps for company. Before the accident, there had been pill bottles, but the children had removed most of those for use or sale._

_Misha pops the cabinet open, wincing at the sound it makes. The sick sweat drips into his eyes and stings. For a moment, he thinks one of the children caught wise to their deception and he is afraid, but no, no, there’s the boxed bottle of no-wash shampoo. It was the sort of product that only a catch-all slave or a nurse might need to worry about, or so thought the children, and so it was safe. He pulls the box free and opens the top._

_The insides of the box are plushy with cottonball padding stuck on with double-stick tape, so the contents don’t rattle. At the bottom of the box, cushioned in a snowdrift of white, there are the pills: muscle relaxants, sedatives, narcotics._

_Misha looks down at his quiet suicide, his escape hatch from the intolerable, and doesn’t feel much but relief._

_Vincent is extinguished. None of the usual suspects (Lord Waterston, Lord Burton) can or will intervene. Misha will be sold in a few days, a week at the outside. He’s crippled and mute and useless, and the children have no reason to be kind._

_He will not become something to rape or beat. Better to die on his own terms._

_Wouldn’t it be better to do it now? But no, he thinks not, too easily interrupted. It would be unfortunate to be found out, brought back to health and sold somewhere worse where he can’t escape. So he picks the pills out, wraps them in a washcloth, and he puts them in his pocket._

_Wherever he goes, he’ll take them with him. And he’ll wait._

_Just in case._

***

The car slides to a halt, stones chattering against the undercarriage. Misha jolts out of his microsleep in the passenger seat, and for a shocking moment, he thinks Vincent is beside him. That the last several months were a bad dream.

Vincent is dead, and Jeremy is looking sidelong, transparently sorry that Misha dragged himself along.

They have made stops on the way: once at an office building, once at a party, once at a Walmart, once at a truck-stop where Jeremy bought too much food and ate too little. They have taken a long weaving route as if Jeremy thinks they’re being followed. Mad Road Driving, Kerouac would say. It has been a long while since they left LA, and it has not been a fun while. 

Misha’s knee throbs like banked fire. He does not want to reach for the pills, because they make him sleepy and slow. If he sleeps, he’s afraid of what Jeremy will do.

Clearing his throat, Misha unbuckles his safety belt and glances around. They’re far out of Los Angeles and into the desert. Misha hasn’t been out of the city since-- hell, probably since Vincent decided that Misha and Adam needed to witness the depravity of Las Vegas as a social experiment. Years now, in other words, and the metal trailer slumped outside looks nothing like the hotel Misha stayed in back then. It’s hitched to a rusting pickup truck.

“You wanted to come,” Jeremy says. His voice sounds papery. “So.”

_I didn’t say anything, _Misha signs. _Not a finger twitch._ When Jeremy doesn’t crack a smile, Misha adds, _is this your property?___

__“My sister’s. That’s all there is. I can call Denis to come get you.”_ _

__No ‘if you want’, no hedging or soft words or apologies. Jeremy is a man on an endurance march, stripped to the essentials of survival. Misha likes Jeremy unapologetic, but not on these terms, because he’s becoming more sure that it’s illness and not a broken heart._ _

__Jeremy chain-smokes and pops caffeine pills and buys four fifty pound bags of large breed dog food. He ignores the humming of his cell phone to drive into the desert on a whim, ditching his business and his friends and his dog. He is afraid every time his phone rings, and Misha can smell it on him. These are not the actions of a well man._ _

__Then again, Jeremy’s illness isn’t like Vincent’s, where symptoms and normal adaptive reactions were so easily separated. If Vincent had more tremors on the anniversary of Bess’s suicide, then it was just lack of dopamine, and the medication could be rationed out to fix things. Vincent’s emotions were his own problem to solve._ _

__The same applies to Jeremy, in theory._ _

___Bring my duffel, please,_ Misha tells Jeremy, and gets out of the car. It’s hard work, standing, his cane slipping in the loose arid dirt and his knee protesting the long hours of stillness without stretching. He doesn’t slip, because he can’t, because that would be unacceptable. Despite everything Misha’s ever heard about desert nights, it’s warm compared to the blasting air conditioning in Jeremy’s car. A shiver wrings Misha’s bones as his kinked muscles unwind._ _

__Something heavy and warm slings across his shoulders like a dead cat. Misha nearly trips, grabs for whatever it is, and finds Jeremy’s suit jacket. It shouldn’t please him nearly so much. He blinks at Jeremy, awkward and ready to snark about them going steady, but all Jeremy’s attention is on the trailer. He brought a travel mug of coffee with him, in the hand that doesn’t have Misha’s bag._ _

__“Meadow? Hey, kid, if you’re in there, put some damn clothes on! I need to--” Jeremy verbally stumbles, like he doesn’t know what he needs or what he came out here for, and then catches up again. “I need to talk to you!”_ _

__No answer. Looking frustrated and lost, Jeremy exhales through his teeth and reaches for another cigarette. Misha can hear him muttering as he lights up, sees the flare of the cherry and the flex of Jeremy’s ribs as he breathes in. After a few seconds, during which Misha can see him thinking furiously, Jeremy seems to remember that Misha is there._ _

__“Put the damn jacket on,” Jeremy says brusquely. “It won’t be much warmer in there, but it’ll be out of the wind. Come on.”_ _

__Jeremy has a key for the trailer, but the door is unlocked. That makes a muscle flex in Jeremy’s jaw like he wants to kick dents in the tin can, but he opens the door and holds it for Misha. He flicks his cigarette away, bored with it, as he’s gotten bored with about three packs worth of cigarettes before they burned down._ _

__There’s precious little room inside the trailer, enough for some small things, a bedroll and a pellet heater and an honest-to-God icebox. No electricity, judging from the row of 7-day candles in various states of burnout. Misha wonders where Jeremy’s sister gets the ice, and whether she was named Meadow at birth or in her rebellious teens. The idea of Jeremy being raised by hippies is both hilarious and confusing. A regular Alex Keaton: conceived in the grass at an outdoor festival, steeped in patchouli oil and green tea, until he grew up to serve the Man._ _

__That or Jeremy’s sister is a Mennonite._ _

__It occurs to Misha that his skills of deduction are a little compromised by sleep deprivation. Vincent would not be pleased._ _

__“Damn it,” Jeremy mutters. He sits down hard on the edge of the bedroll, as if his strings were cut. “Damn it. Fuck.”_ _

__The temptation to take the weight off his knee, even after spending so long in the car, is too much; Misha lowers himself to the floor of the trailer and leans against the wall, curved as a metal womb. His knee throbs like it’s infected, and he’s not sure he can stand again. Maybe Jeremy won’t notice him crawling, instead. He’s crazy enough to--_ _

__Misha bites the inside of his cheek, an old habit from when he actually talked. It seems like decades ago, even though it hasn’t been a year yet. If he talked, he could talk Jeremy down._ _

__They sit in the darkness for a few minutes, long enough that Misha indulges himself in the fantasy that Jeremy will just fall asleep in the absence of light like a pet parakeet. Then he realizes Jeremy has drawn his knees to his chest and is rocking in place as he gnaws on one knuckle. Misha doesn’t doubt that he’d chew it to the bone._ _

__Misha pats at Jeremy’s jacket until he finds the lighter. He takes it out, flicks it to life and lights each of the 7-day candles. The trailer walls are illuminated enough for Misha to see that they’re painted and wall-papered with photos. There is a new-ish ultrasound image behind Jeremy’s shoulder that Misha looks at once, and then carefully does not look at again, because they are in deep enough shit already._ _

__Light moves in uneasy patterns over the weary lines of Jeremy’s face. Misha reaches out and carefully, carefully eases Jeremy’s finger from between his teeth. When he cups Jeremy’s hand between his own, he can feel the caffeine jitters vibrating through them both. Jeremy blinks at him, and Misha lets him go before he can get skittish or angry. He doesn’t know what Jeremy might do if he gets out of control now, or what he might do in guilt afterward._ _

___Tell me about your sister,_ Misha signs._ _

__“I don’t know where she is. She should’ve taken her truck. I need to talk to her.”_ _

___Okay. She’s your younger sister? You don’t speak about her much._ _ _

__“Little sister.” Jeremy shrugs, looking away and then jerking back. “Sorry, I should look at your hands. Sorry, Misha.”_ _

___It’s okay._ Misha forces a smile. _Your parents were hippies?__ _

__“What?” After a few seconds, Jeremy coughs out a laugh. His reactions are too sharp and too slow at the same time, like everything has to filter through to the dark chaotic place inside where he lives. “Right, because. Meadow. My dad’s pretty much a dictionary hippie, yeah. Pot brownies and prayer beads and everything. He’s a monk. I guess, we don’t really talk. Not while I own people, he says.”_ _

__Misha raises his eyebrows but says nothing._ _

__Jeremy doesn’t bristle, only looks tired. “He and Meadow, they’re good people. You’ve got to take care of good people.”_ _

__Good people. The trailer and its ascetic virtue makes Misha think maybe they’re the kind of good people his mother was, riding the poverty line so they didn’t have own slaves. It didn’t work out for his mother, who chose that life, or for Misha and his brother, who didn’t. It’s a nice philosophy, Misha guesses, if you have a wealthy son or brother who would throw cash around whenever Escrow got too close. Upon Jeremy’s back, above the muck, there is a moral high ground._ _

__An unfair judgment, given that he’s never met Jeremy’s family, but not necessarily the wrong judgment. If only the immoral owned slaves, then slaves were always owned by the immoral. No way out, only through._ _

__“She’ll like you, though,” Jeremy says. His eyelashes are heavy on his cheeks, almost sullen. Misha wonders what they would feel like against his lips if he kissed Jeremy’s eyes closed, a fairytale in reverse. “You’re smart. You’re funny. You’re beautiful.”_ _

__Misha does not feel beautiful with grit in his eyes and road-sweat on his face, unshowered for days, his suit in wrinkles. But his mouth tugs in a smile, surprising him with its sincerity._ _

__“There are feral dogs out here,” Jeremy says suddenly, nonsensically. “Strays that people dump because they say it’s better than drowning them, but then they just starve. I bring Meadow food. I ought to feed them before we go.”_ _

__Misha’s heart rolls over in giddy relief. _Before we go home?_ he signs._ _

__“To find her.” Grimacing, Jeremy gets to his feet. It looks like shoddy stop-motion animation. “She’s probably in town.”_ _

__His stupid relief bottoms out._ _

__Jeremy thumps out of the trailer, door banging shut behind him, knocking against the frame instead of sticking. The night air is bitterly cold._ _

__Misha considers what Jeremy would to do if Misha says he can’t get up. Leave him, probably; Jeremy is like a racehorse that will run until it cripples itself or its heart explodes._ _

__So Misha will have to stand up. Jeremy’s not the only one who can ignore his body._ _

__At least Jeremy left coffee, and his phone in his jacket. Misha takes a swig of the coffee and makes a face at its unvarnished greasy staleness. No sugar, naturally, because someone might think for a moment that Jeremy likes himself._ _

__Fumbling for distraction to keep himself awake, Misha retrieves the Blackberry and thumbs it on._ _

__The webpage on Jeremy’s Blackberry has a manifesto about how an interested free man could disappear._ _

__Misha reads it twice, the intricate details of going off the grid and becoming someone new. It is all wildly illegal, and Jeremy’s an idiot to download it on his phone. Unless he’s not flirting with the idea, unless he truly intends to be gone before anybody tracks his IP._ _

__Misha opens Jeremy’s browser history and finds a rental car company, a Mapquest query for a hostel in New York. A text to Wendy telling her to come get Misha, please, giving directions for the place where Jeremy intends to ditch him like one of those strays. It hurts like he’s been punched in the throat._ _

__Fuck you, Misha says, his lips moving on the words before he quite remembers that he can’t speak them._ _

__Misha has done his share of looking up illegal information. He covers Jeremy’s trail, waves erasing footprints in sand. Then he puts the phone away and looks at his duffel bag. He hooks the handle of his cane into the strap and drags the bag to him, and he guts the bag of its contents. His clothes get shoved into Meadow’s icebox. If his suits get trashed, well. Fuck it. Fuck everything._ _

__There is a false bottom in his duffel. He pulls it out and there’s the baggie of Vincent’s pills, his suicide stash. Misha sections out some of the pills: muscle relaxants, some anti-anxiety medication, a sleeping pill. On further thought, he adds a second sleeping pill. Then he tucks the diminished stash in the icebox, next to his things._ _

__Some of the pills are capsules; he pops those and dumps the powder into Jeremy’s coffee. For the solid pills, he removes one shoe and grinds them between his heel and the metal wall. It’s rough Macguyver pharmacology, but it’ll do. That goes into the mug. Misha swishes the concoction around a few times, to stir. Good thing the coffee is black and bitter. Good thing Jeremy is probably oblivious to everything outside his brain, anyway. He must be, to think Misha would prefer to be left behind._ _

__Misha is just mashing the lid back on when Jeremy comes back into the trailer, looking wild-eyed and windblown. Jeremy’s eyes drop to Misha’s shoeless foot, and he blinks a few times._ _

__“You hurting that bad?” Jeremy asks finally._ _

__It’s easier to lie when the mark fills in the blank. Putting on Jeremy’s sheepish little shrug like he put on Jeremy’s jacket, Misha rubs his thumb across the arch of his foot. _I just need a second,_ Misha signs, and then sighs. _And some help up, please.__ _

__“No problem.” Jeremy sinks down on his haunches, watching Misha up close. His eyes are dark and worried, and Misha could almost feel a little bad, until he sees Jeremy pat for his keys and his Blackberry. Thinking about ditching him here instead of at the junction of two highways. Poor sad Misha, need to protect him from himself. “Listen, Mish, if you’re hurting, if you want to go home...”_ _

___I want to go with you,_ Misha signs, more viciously than necessary. Then he shoves the coffee at Jeremy. _Give me a minute. Finish your coffee. You can get more.__ _

__It’s not the smoothest manipulation ever. Vincent would be ashamed. Vincent would be ashamed of a lot of things Misha has done._ _

__For a tricky moment, Misha thinks he pushed too hard, but Jeremy finally looks away. He lifts the coffee to his mouth. His throat works as he swallows. How much? Enough?_ _

__Misha slowly gets his shoe, and slowly puts it on, as if he’s struggling with the laces. He has Jeremy’s phone. Jeremy won’t just leave him, because that would be irresponsible. That would be not good._ _

__Then again, Jeremy could call Wendy from a payphone._ _

__Then again, Jeremy could walk into the desert and kill himself by exposure. A lot of things could happen. In some games, one can’t cover all the angles._ _

__Life is not a game, Vincent would say._ _

__As he ties his bedraggled shoe, Jeremy lifts the coffee and drains it in one long swig._ _

__Misha hopes he didn’t just poison him. That would be his luck, two dead owners in as many weeks. Two dead. Two dead..._ _

__All the tension leaves Misha in a hard shudder. He’s tired, so stupidly tired that his eyes are watery with it. His hands are tingly with adrenaline, or maybe it’s nerve damage, or maybe he’s just fucking sick of people leaving him behind._ _

__Jeremy reaches behind himself and turns the door’s handle. Misha can see Jeremy bolting for the car and passing out behind the wheel and it would be Misha’s fault, like Vincent is Misha’s fault, and Misha makes a strangled not-word protest that hurts his throat, but Jeremy is only closing the door against the wind. Only sealing them in, where the cold can’t get them._ _

__“Hey,” Jeremy says softly, surprised. Kneeling down beside Misha on the bedroll, he puts an arm around him and rubs his arm like he thinks Misha has frostbite. “Hey, no, it’s okay. God, you’re shaking like hell. I’m sorry. I didn’t do something, I didn’t-- You cold? You hungry?”_ _

__Misha chokes on a laugh and lets Jeremy tuck him against his side, turning his face against the scratchy warm curve of Jeremy’s neck. Jeremy leans them both back against the wall, his arm tight around Misha as he murmurs and soothes and briskly scrubs at Misha’s arm._ _

__I’m a liar, Misha thinks but doesn’t say. I’ve only ever been a liar and a spy and a con artist. I don’t know how to fix you. I only know how to drug your coffee. I’m sorry I won’t let your heart explode. I’m sorry. I’m sorry._ _

__Jeremy rubs his cheek against Misha’s head, his hair ticklishly trapped between them, rocking them both now, comforting them both. Misha closes his eyes, and he waits, and he feels it begin to slow._ _

__“Misha,” Jeremy says, dawning realization. Clever, wary Jeremy._ _

__Shame squirms in Misha’s belly. Resting a hand on Jeremy’s ribs to keep him propped up, Misha shifts out from under Jeremy’s arm. Jeremy lets him go, watching him through hazy eyes._ _

__“Misha,” Jeremy repeats, slower, like it’s honey in his mouth. If he looked betrayed, it would be one thing, but he only looks shaken up. “Don’t... don’t let them strap me down.”_ _

__The shame grows teeth. _I won’t,_ Misha signs, _you’re safe,_ but he’s not sure Jeremy can even understand sign or see straight enough to read it now. Instead, he strokes Jeremy’s face and pets his hair and tries to hum to him, tries to push as much protection and affection into him as he can, until Jeremy’s eyes close and stay closed, and he’s asleep. Unconscious, if Misha is honest with himself._ _

__He’s probably going to be sent away for this. He’s deserves that and worse. But he can’t say he would do differently, alone as they are, desperate as he is._ _

__His stomach feels knotted up. One hand still on Jeremy, where it’s going to stay, Misha gets out the Blackberry. He deletes the text to Wendy, and opens one to Zach. His typing is horrible, what with the shaking, but he finishes and hits send. Then he sits back to wait._ _

___W/ Jer,_ the text says. _@ Meado’s. Need u 2 bring us home.__ _


	22. Chapter 22

Pain rocks Misha into a thoughtless nirvana entirely unlike sleep, and pain wakes Misha up. Someone is hauling him upright and Misha is helping in his daze, automatically putting weight on his bad knee. “Vincent, don’t, I’m still alive,” he tries to say, but manages only to wheeze.

It isn’t Vincent come to drag him down into the earth. It’s Zach, sweating and rumpled. They’re in Meadow’s trailer. Misha seeks Jeremy just as instinctively as he tried to walk or speak, and doesn’t find him.

“Other leg,” Zach says, but he’s already bending to scoop Misha up and carry him, bride-like, across the threshold. Or maybe over the shoulder like laundry. “I got you--”

Misha hobbles forward on his good leg, catching himself on the trailer wall. His mind swims. _Jeremy?_ he signs, but it feels like his fingers trip on the letters and he starts over as soon as he finishes. _Jeremy?_

Zach’s expression shutters, but he’s not as furious as if he’d found Misha snuggling a corpse. The dread Misha hadn’t known he was carrying dropped away.

“In my car. I put him in first.”

 _Left him?_ Misha feels horrified, as if Jeremy is the Terminator and will shake off heavy sedation to go hitchhike to New York.

Zach snorts, but there’s thick tension lines around his eyes. “He’s out. He won’t be going anywhere. Stop tripping balls and we can get back faster, okay?”

It’s a fair point. Misha slings his arm around Zach’s shoulders and hobbles forward, demonstrating how this whole ‘carrying Misha to safety’ routine is going to happen. It’d probably be easier to do a fireman’s carry, but Zach doesn’t say so.

Up close, Zach is feverishly warm. He smells like days-old cologne and sweat, and also like a child’s bubble-bath. Misha wonders how Zach has slept, knowing Jeremy is out roaming the desert.

They get to Zach’s alleged car, slowly. Misha tries to put weight on his knee again, and then tries to forget what it felt like to do so. His breath pants out like a woman in labor and Zach’s arm tightens on him, bearing him up. It must hurt him to do it after already carrying Jeremy, but Zach doesn’t shake or falter.

Jeremy is in the back seat on the passenger side, where Zach can keep an eye on him. There are probably child locks. At least for a few minutes Zach can keep Jeremy from flinging himself into traffic.

Rationality says that Jeremy ought to be in a hospital somewhere, just for a while, just until he’s back on solid ground. But Misha thinks of Jeremy’s nightmares (don’t no don’t don’t) and his flinching, his story about being released from the hospital and nearly committing suicide, his last words (don’t let them strap me down) and Misha can do the math. The last hospital that Jeremy was in (no, say it as it is, that Morgan put him in) nearly killed him, left deep unhealing scars, and another round would kill him. Even if it was a new hospital. Jeremy would see the old one, seeping through like one film exposure into another, and he would find a way to kill himself there because death was better. Better to die on his own terms.

They have that in common, him and Jeremy.

But then, Misha might have forced Jeremy’s hand because of his trick with the pills. Maybe an overdose. Maybe he’d as good as killed Jeremy himself rather than letting him run.

Misha wishes he wasn’t so much Vincent’s son, seeing too much. He wishes that he might think back on this in the morning and laugh at how wrong he was, imagining that Jeremy was raped in the hospital. Thinking he knows anything about Jeremy and his secrets at all.

They reach the car, and Zach leans Misha against the door. The engine is running, a deep thrumming from inside, and the window is warm. Misha can feel his body starting to shiver as if it belongs to someone else. His body is not this damaged and fallible thing. He has ignored it for years; it could do him the courtesy of returning the favor. 

“Guess you’ll want to ride in the back,” Zach says, not quite a question.

Misha manages to glare, though it’s probably pitiful, and nods.

Zach’s laugh is scuffed and worn. He opens the driver’s door, and Misha reluctantly lifts himself off the car to let Zach pop the backseat. Child locks, as Misha thought.

“C’mon, honey,” Zach says; Misha doesn’t realize who Zach’s talking to until Zach nudges him towards the car. “Get in there, you’re freezing.”

Misha goes before Zach tries to herd him into the car, folding down beside Jeremy. The car is deliciously warm, though it smells like heated metal. Carefully, Misha gathers Jeremy up against his side. He tries to leave Jeremy room to wriggle free, to not feel trapped.

Zach closes the door, climbs into the driver seat. Once he’s there, he cranes around to look at them. “So what’d you give him?” he asks, so matter of fact that he could be commenting on the cold.

Misha tries to think fast. Can’t. Signs, _he doesn’t want to go to the hospital._

Mouth thinning, Zach rolls up the sleeve of his shirt. There against the inside of his arm are several scars from track marks. “My last owner, he had some bad habits. Got paranoid, tested his drugs on me. Sometimes he’d OD. Sometimes I would. Either way, no. No hospitals. Anyway, this isn’t me and Jer’s first time at the rodeo. I know how he...” Zach sighs and rolls his sleeve down, covering his scars and smiling. “I don’t take him to the hospital no matter how bad it gets. That’s the deal.”

Misha exhales. Then he signs what he gave Jeremy, the names of the drugs and the dosages. Zach writes them on his hand, beside other notes like ‘milk creamer carrots’. When Misha’s finished, Zach glances at Jeremy. The look lingers, gentling, until Misha should feel like an intruder. He doesn’t, but he should.

“You jackass,” Zach mutters, and turns around to start driving. “You’re the most goddamn stubborn hard-headed fucker I ever met in my life. I was on my way to your stupid fucking house in the middle of nowhere, I told you to wait--”

The rant shows no sign of stopping or getting loud enough to startle Jeremy awake. Misha presses his cheek on the top of Jeremy’s head, thick curls trying to smother him. He breathes in the scent of Jeremy, the heat of him, and tries to burn it on his memory. He’ll need it, when Jeremy sends him back to Burton with an apologetic note pinned to his coat along with his mittens. He’ll need it like water to sustain him, because he is the one who gets left behind.

Misha blinks. It must be a long blink, because when his eyes close, Zach is cursing; when his eyes open again, Zach is singing Ring of Fire in a low husked-out voice. It sounds like he’s been singing for a while. Misha reaches automatically for Jeremy, and relaxes when he finds him still breathing.

For a moment, Misha meets Zach’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Zach gives a rueful smile but doesn’t stop singing to Jeremy, an intimacy almost like seeing them fuck.

So says a virgin, anyway.

Taking one hand off the wheel, Zach signs _almost there._ Misha waits for the surge of fear, the memory of twisting metal and Vincent’s blood sprayed on the car window, but it only gums at him tonight. Exhaustion mutes everything. Still, Misha tightens his arm around Jeremy until he gets a murmured complaint for his trouble.

No seatbelts. He has to hold Jeremy together. His arm aches from it. Another mile and then another mile and then another mile after that.

Misha blinks.

Someone is trying to lift Misha out of the car. Misha lashes out, pulling Jeremy across the seat against him, and bares his teeth.

Vincent spent 17 years teaching Misha how to use his mind. Two weeks without him and Misha is acting like he was raised by wolves. That bitter realization isn’t enough to make Misha stop snarling.

The car has stopped moving. Light spills from the front door of a small house across the man reaching for him, but Misha doesn’t recognize his face until the man says, “Easy, Cujo. Just trying to help.”

It’s Denis. That eases some of Misha’s first, feral reaction, but not all of it. He knots his fingers in Jeremy’s shirt and shakes his head no, no, he refuses, not yet.

There is a woman. She touches Denis on the shoulder, displacing him, and kneels down to look Misha in the eyes. Her voice is calm, even pleasant. “Misha. My name is Dr. Cate Blanchett. Do you know who I am?”

The prescribing doctor on Jeremy’s medication. Misha nods.

“Okay.” The corners of her eyes squinch up as she smiles. “You should know you’ve done very well for Jeremy. Very well indeed. But I’d like to administer some medications to stabilize him. What I need you to do now is to let go of him for a little while so we can get him inside.”

Misha knows that her approval is just manipulation to get him to release Jeremy. The trouble is, he’s tired enough that it might work.

 _No hospital,_ he signs to Cate.

A murmured translation for Cate’s benefit later, she answers, “No. No hospital.”

Ah.Then Misha has no more reasons to object. He takes a last drag of scent from Jeremy’s skin, of the close and secret heat of Jeremy’s body, and then he lets go.

They take Jeremy from him, bear him away into the dark. Misha thinks of Vincent and shudders, and then he can’t stop shuddering. He’s suddenly aware of how tired he is, how cold, how desperately he needs a pain pill after three days without. How mute he is. How alone.

There is a bit of commotion outside the car. Misha hears his name but can’t be bothered to answer, even when Zach shakes him. His job is finished, his road walked. Jeremy is safe.

“You’re adopted now,” says Denis. “You poor bastard.”

The words are nothing but sound-shapes. Misha closes his eyes.


	23. Chapter 23

Jeremy opens his eyes. His lashes feel glued together, smearing the familiar lines of Zach's ceiling. Despite that, and the safe smell of waffles being made, he tests to be sure his wrists aren't bound.

Both of his arms are free to move, but one of them is numb. Turns out that Misha is laying on top of it, looking worn but basically intact.

He crash-landed.

"Jeremy." Cate doesn't sound like anybody's dead or arrested or retaken by Escrow. As if she hears him thinking, which he wouldn't necessarily put past her, she adds, "It's all right."

Jeremy turns his head towards her. Even flat on his back, that makes him dizzy. He feels flattened emotionally, the jagged panic and run-run-run drive distant as the Atlantic.

"Misha okay?" he asks. Even his voice sounds flat.

Cate tilts her head like he said something particularly interesting. "He'll be fine. He was vexed about sleeping on the couch and insisted on sleeping here. He seems quite protective of you."

Apparently he's not as flat as he thought, because that feels like a kick in the chest. He forces his fingers to stop absently stroking Misha's hair. Misha grunts in his sleep, discontented, and butts into Jeremy's hand for more touching. The fracture in Jeremy's heart opens wider. Surrendering to the inevitable, he goes back to petting and Misha settles into him again.

"Seroquel?" he asks Cate.

"Yes. Only until you're stabilized. A month at the most." When he shrugs instead of his usual bitching about sedating drugs that keep him from thinking straight, she sighs and leans back in her chair. "Do you feel like the lithium is no longer working?"

There's no judgment written on her face, but he still feels compelled to say, "I didn't stop taking them."

"Good. I thought as much when we found them in Misha's jacket." Her eyes tick to Jeremy's hand, still absently stroking Misha for his own comfort. "I'm glad you trust him to remind you."

"Yeah. Just hope he'll trust me after this."

"Mm." Cate tilts her head, that glint in her eyes that says Jeremy's being stupid and she's trying to figure out how to tell him so. "Do you remember that he drugged your coffee?"

Jeremy's dry mouth and aching head make that hard to forget. "Yeah, I know."

"I imagine a slave would be punished quite severely for it."

Jeremy bristles. "I wouldn't do that."

"I know that," Cate says, gentler. "He knows that. But he wouldn't have risked it if he didn't think you were worth it."

Jeremy glances back at Misha, the lines of pain around his mouth and the dark circles under his eyes. It's his oldest and most frequent habit, kicking himself, leaving people first before he can be left, but Cate has a point. Misha is too much Vincent's creation to do anything without considering the risks, and yet he still chose to drug Jeremy, knowing he could hang for it. The realization unlocks some kernel of despair in Jeremy’s chest.

"The lithium," Cate says, herding him back into line. Her eyes search his face, and she adds to her previous question. "How long do you think it's been ineffective?"

After the hospital, Jeremy's first instinct has been to lie: I'm not crazy, put that in your files, I'm not crazy so let me out. But Cate is different from those asshole doctors that spent five minutes with him and thought they knew his mind better than he did. Cate has never lied to him, and so Cate doesn't deserve those lies in return.

Jeremy shrugs the shoulder Misha isn't lying on. "Hard to say. It was a slow process when it stopped."

"It usually is."

"Six months?" Jeremy thinks of Marisa's spiral down into her overdose, how he'd been watching but felt unable to stop her crash, the grayness of those days in his memory. He'd already been down in it. He follows that oilslick of depression back, back, to the last time he'd felt manic instead. "No. Probably a year since I really thought it was working."

"A year," Cate echoes. There's no rebuke in her voice, just that Dr. Blanchett steadiness of nerve. "Okay. How would you feel about trying something else?"

Like shit, like he's headed to the medication merry-go-round that he'd seen other people ride. It doesn't look pretty; his short-lived dedication to support groups had shown that he'd been lucky to get a good drug on his first try and he'd clung to that longer than he should've. He doesn't want to be the jaw-twitchers, the pacers, the zombies.

But. How long until the next manic rise or depressive crash where his hand hovers a little too long over his shaving razors? Where he decides that he can fly?

No.

No, he wants to live.

Jeremy rolls that over in his head. It feels raw and new, making the decision in words, not this half-hearted flailing in the dark. He wants to live, and he will do whatever it takes to make that happen.

Even the hospital?

He can feel Misha breathing beside him.

Yes. Even the hospital.

"Jeremy," Cate prompts.

"I need help," Jeremy says. His voice is so dry and so quiet that he can barely hear himself over the blood pounding in his ears. "I can-- if I need to go back in the hospital to be stabilized, I really really don't want to but I'll go. If you think. For the new meds. I know you wouldn't..."

The words die out in his throat and he blinks at her, willing her to understand.

Cate covers Jeremy's hand with her own and squeezes. "Well," she says. "I think we can avoid that."

All the terrified tension wrings out of Jeremy. He turns his hand over in hers, stupidly and desperately grateful, and he lets her help him down off the ledge.


	24. Chapter 24

Willful, Vincent used to call Misha, in mixed tones of pride and exasperation. Control freak, Sasha used to whisper at him, digging his bony little kid knuckle into Misha's side.

Misha feels like neither, because as soon as he wakes, he wills himself to feign sleep and he fails. The long hiss of pain escapes before he can bite his lip; his knee jolts killing pain from his hip to his toes, which explains the dreams where a dog was gnawing at his bones. Immediately both conversation (Cate was saying something about Lamictal) and the steady stroke of Jeremy's hand through his hair stop. 

"Hey, hey," Jeremy soothes. "Here, take some pills."

Misha takes the pills and swallows them with offered water, panting between sips. He jerks down the blanket and tries kneading the locked muscles of his thigh, which he can feel spasming beneath his fingers. The pain starts to ease by stubborn inches, still radiating downwards but not with the same intensity. Misha thinks he would murder someone for some Bengay.

Cate rises from her seat. "I'll get you some ice for that?"

"And heat too, if Wendy's got something," Jeremy says absently. "Thanks."

With a smile for both of them, Cate exits. She closes the door behind her. 

"Do you mind?" Jeremy asks, nodding at Misha's calf. When Misha shrugs, he wraps his hands around Misha's shin, generously far from the kneecap. He massages with his thumbs, skillful and not hesitant, his hands radiating heat through Misha's pants. "Jeff busted his knee up. Sometimes this helps."

Misha briefly considers texting Jeff the words 'my Jeremy, mine, mine, mine', but dismisses it. That's not a given, considering the last 72 hours. As it is, he savors the massage for its potential to end, and the fact that it could be the last time he feels Jeremy's hands. 

Then again, would Jeremy rub his leg if he was going to dismiss Misha from his service?

Misha considers and has to admit sourly that yes, Jeremy would do just that. 

As if he hears what Misha's thinking, Jeremy says quietly, "I'm sorry about this."

Misha raises his eyebrows and bounces the conversation back by signing, _which this do you mean?_

"Dragging you across the desert without sleep or pills for days." Jeremy gentles his approach, stroking in long shivery sweeps of his thumbs. "You're hurting now, and it's--"

 _I chose not to sleep,_ Misha signs fiercely over Jeremy's words. _I chose not to stop to take pills. Don't take my choices from me, Jeremy, they're all that I have._

Except instead of fingerspelling Jeremy's whole name, Misha slips and uses a personal sign: the letter J spun around Misha's temple like the wild curls of Jeremy's hair, or like the gesture for madness. 

Jeremy blinks at Misha's hands, and then smiles. The smile is as tender as Jeremy's hands, cradling Misha's hurt leg like a grounded bird. "No. That's not all you have."

They look at each other for a moment, as close as a kiss.

 _I chose to stay with you instead of anything I knew,_ Misha continues, shaping each sign into slow calligraphy so that Jeremy can't mistake his meaning. This is important. _I chose you and I will choose you again and again. Send me away for drugging you if you want--_

"Mish, you saved my life."

 _Or send me to work in the library instead of as your bodyslave, but I choose to stay as near you as I can._ Misha pauses, flustered by how vulnerable he's made himself. He's run out of words and Jeremy is staring at him. _Do you understand?_

"You saved my life," Jeremy repeats. "But I thought... no. I was afraid you'd want to get away from me as soon as you could."

 _Well,_ Misha signs, _that seems to be your default position._

"Heh. Touche." Ducking his head, Jeremy gives a rueful smile. A stray curl escapes and dangles in front of his face; he puffs it away. "You really want to stay my bodyslave?"

_If I have my choice, yes. That's what I want._

"Well." Jeremy swallows, and Misha sees that he's touched. Grateful. It hurts Misha's heart. "I want you to stay, too. As long as you want."

Forever will do, Misha thinks, but he stops short of saying it. His heart is drumming away. If he tries to sign, his fingers may shake. Greatly daring, he reaches down and covers Jeremy's hand.

"Thank you for dropping my ass with horse tranquilizers," Jeremy says, his grin a tired shadow. "Nicest thing anybody's ever done for me."

 _You're welcome,_ Misha tells him. _I ought to ask Cate for supplies, in case there's a next time._

"There shouldn't be. Cate's switching my meds." Jeremy pats Misha's good knee and climbs back up beside him, moving like they're on a waterbed instead of a foam mattress. 

Dizzy with pills; the hurt in Misha's heart for him grows stronger, and he pushes it away before Jeremy can mistake it for pity. 

Well. Misha starts to shape a dozen smartass answers, instead choosing, _maybe you could explain them to me._

"Of course." Jeremy turns his head towards Misha. "I'll need your help. You'll be keeping my meds and coming with me to appointments. Keeping me honest. Um. If you don't mind."

 _I don't mind,_ Misha says. _I'm honored. Thank you._

Jeremy ducks his head again, but his grin seems less exhausted this time.

It feels like a halting waltz, the two of them hesitant and limping. It feels like their parallel lines both shifting just enough to eventually cross. 

So Jeremy lays beside him, almost touching as he explains the new medications and the twice weekly appointments; beneath the mundane details, Misha sees a fragile new shoot that is Jeremy trying to save himself instead of everyone else. He's glad to see it, even as his knee throbs and he hears the drugs dulling Jeremy's voice down. It will pass. 

They lay close, almost touching, the bed like a raft bearing them closer to ground.


	25. Chapter 25

Despite just waking up, all Jeremy wants is to sleep again. A few hours passed, bringing warm food and a hot shower and another dose of medication. Ryzer is in bed, although he'll probably be up asking for a glass of water and a cookie because he thinks his parents were born yesterday; Misha is tucked on the couch with Jeremy's phone, having been instructed on how to play all the good games. The bedroom door is shut, the sheets are clean. Jeremy is naked. All is fine in the world.

Except, well. Jeremy still has miles to go before he can sleep.

Zach drops onto the bed, artlessly making the frame protest, and throws one arm across his eyes. Over the years, Wendy and Zach's bodies have made an impression in the mattress, and it's not really big enough for three.

There's no sign of Wendy, but she'll come to bed. They'll press together, the three of them, whether Jeremy explains anything or apologizes or not. He pictures what they'd do if he disappeared to New York, how long they'd wait, if they'd go to Brent or Jeff for help, if they'd eventually assume he was dead. How they'd explain to Ryzer. Trying to imagine it, he can't figure out what he'd been thinking. 

That he might've infected them with anything Marisa or Scott had. That he's not clean. It aches to remember that not all his issues are self-inflicted this time. 

"Z," Jeremy starts. "I'm sorry."

Zach doesn't react for a moment, tight lines around his mouth. It's a long enough silence that Jeremy's heart, buried under all the mood stabilizer, starts to rev; this is it, this is when they get tired of his bullshit. Then Zach rolls over, frames Jeremy's face in his big hands and kisses him. The corners of his mouth, his jaw, his throat. 

"Shut the fuck up," Zach says, not unkindly, punctuating each word with a kiss. "Just shut up, you fucking idiot."

When Zach reaches his collarbone, he bites and Jeremy jerks against him. It hurts and it's good. He curls against Zach, seeking more, tangling his fingers in Zach's shirt even while he laughs, "Not real sure I can get off, with the Seroquel."

"Don't worry about it, we can make out," Zach murmurs rough-voiced into his skin, pulling him closer with a hard grip on his hips, manhandling him like he knows Jeremy likes. He can't seem to decide where to put his hands, letting them roam down Jeremy's back and pull his hair, everywhere, overwhelming.

Jeremy relaxes into Zach, the comfort of being touched and grounded into his body. He bites Zach back, his shoulder, his mouth, his neck. Their bodies twine together, slow and grinding like they can erode marks into each other over time. A warm steady ache sinks into Jeremy's dick, arousal that he could act on or ignore; Zach's hips roll against Jeremy's thigh, the hardness of his dick through worn sweatpants. Jeremy can smell Zach's body heating up, precome and sweat. 

Testing, he grinds against Zach. Zach grips Jeremy by the ass, digging his fingers in hard, pulling them tighter together until it almost hurts. Jeremy pants out a laugh against the crook of Zach's neck. "Okay," he says, "fuck the Seroquel, apparently that's not a problem."

Zach hums, pleased, rutting against Jeremy slow and dirty. Jeremy wonders dizzily if he's going to have finger-shaped bruises on his ass. He wants them.

He doesn't notice the dip of the bed under Wendy, not until she touches the small of his back between the span of Zach's hands on him. Her touch is light, almost ticklish. He wants to press back against her to make her touch him harder, but Zach won't let him move much.

"You want more?" Wendy says. Her fingertip traces the line of his spine up, idle, like she's inspecting him for new breaks. When Jeremy nods, she continues with steel in her voice, "Say it." 

Jeremy shudders. "Yes."

Her touch slides down his back, lower and lower; Zach holds him open for her. Wendy leans in, her breath on the small of his back, and bites him there. Her hand on the back of his thigh pushes it wider open, slinging his leg over Zach's. Zach grinds out a noise, reaching down to pull his dick out of his sweatpants, rubbing a slick path over Jeremy's flank. His kisses scratch with stubble, gentling slow kisses even as Wendy kitten-licks at the rim of Jeremy's asshole. 

Wendy opens him with her mouth, with the tips of her fingers. It's good. His signals cross. He pulls Zach's hair, hitching noises rising in his throat. The smell of Wendy's cunt comes to him, dizzying; he feels like he's unlocking, like his bones are melting. It'd be easier if he could be louder, but Misha is in the living room and he can't, he can't. He's shaking. 

"She's got that strap-on," Zach says, biting the corner of Jeremy's mouth. And yes, Jeremy knows the one, the long mean one that was held inside of her pussy and that ground against her clit with every thrust. "She's fucking wet. Wen..."

Wendy pulls away from Jeremy with a last long kiss, her breathing hard. She moves up his back, her tits pressed against him, the drag of the strap-on. Pulling the hair off the back of his neck, she bites him there for good measure. He cranes his head, trying to kiss her, and instead she pushes her slick fingertips against his lips. So he sucks those clean as she lines up the strap-on. 

"You're gonna take this for me," she says. 

Jeremy nods, eyes half-closed. Zach leans in and licks between Wendy's fingers, chasing the taste of them. Wendy strokes Zach's cheek with her thumb. The head of the dildo (her cock, Jeremy thinks dizzily) starts its slow push into him, widening him open around it, shaping him around it. He moans around her fingers, and she tells him, "That's my fucking cockslut."

She goes slow. The burn, the relentless drive of the dildo unmakes Jeremy; he needs more, faster, rougher. He wants to be hurt. He tries to push back into her, but he's caught in between their bodies. Jeremy digs his nails into Zach, biting Wendy's fingers.

"Take it," Wendy purrs. 

As she sinks deep, her breath catches in her throat. She holds onto his hip, angling herself, sliding off his prostate so that he whines out a noise. Jeremy slithers his hand between his body and Zach's, taking both their cocks in his shaky hand. Zach shudders, his fingers flexing on Jeremy's ass, pushing him back on Wendy's dick until he feels the scratch of Wendy's pubic hair. 

"Yeah." Wendy grinds against him, slow and dirty. When Jeremy tips his head back onto her shoulder, she starts to pull her fingers out of his mouth; he turns, following her hand, and she laughs low in her belly. Knowing. Some part of Jeremy squirms under how well she knows him. "You want me to cover your mouth so Misha doesn't hear you begging for me to fill your tight ass?"

Jeremy grunts like she's punched him, horrified and stupidly aroused. Zach takes the opportunity to bite Jeremy's throat; his cock is wet in Jeremy's fingers, precome Jeremy wants to taste. 

"Come on," Wendy whispers, and fucks into him. "You're so hot like this, all strung out. You'd let me put a few more fingers in you. You take this dick and Zach's at once, wouldn't you, baby?"

And yes, god, he would. He would. "Wen," he pants, "please. Please."

Her hand covers his mouth, just short of too much. Jeremy lets her move him, the jerk of his hips giving way to strung tension, his thighs aching with strain, and it's good, he'd let her fuck him all night, the sounds from her throat and Zach trembling like the taut string of a guitar. He manages to hold Zach tight, to give him a tight wet fist to fuck, and when Zach shudders and comes quiet, so quiet, Jeremy is startled by the low grateful noise from his own throat as he follows. 

Wendy hitches in a breath, riding the strap-on from her end in filthy hot thrusts; Jeremy tries to reach back to help her out, admittedly flailing, and she slaps his ass for it. When he gasps, she burrows her face against him as she rides the last of her orgasm out with little twitches of her hips. 

They sprawl together, sticky and panting, in a puppy-pile. Wendy strokes Jeremy's hair, then Zach's throat, with her damp fingers.

"Goddamn, woman," Zach says muzzily. "You're a fucking porn-star."

"You say the sweetest things," Wendy says, beaming. Slowly, carefully, she eases the strap-on out. She touches Jeremy's hole, making him hiss and curve back against her. That must satisfy her, because she lets him go with a last lingering press. 

Zach kisses both of them, brushing his knuckles across Jeremy's cheek. "Gonna check on Ryz. Sleep, Jer, you're doing that slow blinking thing. Like it fools anybody."

"Go fuck yourself," Jeremy suggests, ruining it with a yawn. "I just slept."

"Sleep more." Wendy puts her arms around him, pulling him back against her. Her tits are soft and she smells sweet. "We love you."

"Love you," Jeremy says, yawning again. His eyes burn, his muscles languorous and warm. Grudgingly, he closes his eyes. 

He misses Misha beside him, his stupid pajamas and his scent and his quick hands. He is ashamed of himself for that stray thought after everything he's done to them, but he can't escape it until he is pulled down, down into sleep again.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story intersects with poisontaster's A Kept Boy [Chapter 60](http://archiveofourown.org/works/253311/chapters/398929) and [Chapter 61](http://archiveofourown.org/works/253311/chapters/398939).

There are noises from the bedroom.

Misha has open games of Words with Friends and hard-copy solitaire, and he's looking up side effects of Seroquel and Lamictal, _and_ he's watching the Farm Report on mute, but that can't stop him from hearing stifled noises from the bedroom. From straining to hear the noises. From identifying the noises: the headboard creaking, a woman's murmured voice, a shuddering moan.

He remembers this feeling from Vincent's service, stumbling across Cook's trysts in the pantry or Vincent's daughter using her slave after dinner. Only he remembers being amused by the squish and sweat of it, so smugly aware that he is better for his own lack of desire.

He is not so amused now. He feels hot and itchy, caught too tightly in his skin. He does not like this change. He wants it to go back. Vincent was so much safer, Vincent did not sling an arm around Misha's belly at night and hold him close, Vincent did not smell like resin and lemon balm and warm skin.

Quiet from the bedroom. Misha bites his thumb and wonders if he has the letters for 'voyeur'.

"Cow," pipes up Ryzer from behind him. Misha turns his head to the television, where there is indeed a cow. He sighs, and then takes Ryzer's small hand to get him cookies and a glass of milk. That seems to be what one does with other people's children.

They're sitting together on the couch, Ryzer helping Misha with his cookies, when Zach emerges from the bedroom. Zach is wearing Jeremy's shirt, his hair rumpled, and he closes the door behind him. When he passes the couch, he seems unsurprised to find Ryzer awake and on Misha's lap.

Ryzer immediately clamors up the back of the couch, making grabby hands at Zach. With one arm, Zach hauls Ryzer up onto his shoulder and holds him as he picks up his cell phone. Dials.

Misha sits up straighter on the couch. Signs, _who are you calling?_

Zach gives him one thin, tired look, which is his answer. Then he says to the phone, "It's Zach. He's here." A pause. "He's fine. Cate already came by." Another pause. "He's sleeping, man, I'm telling you he's okay. It wasn't that bad this time... yeah. Yeah, all right. He's not gonna Houdini. Just get here."

Zach hangs up. It's a short call, less than a minute. Zach hands Misha his phone back.

Misha looks at him.

Hitching Ryzer further up on his shoulder, Zach tells Misha, "Stop looking at me like I ate a kitten, dude."

 _You called Jeff,_ Misha signs. He shouldn't be surprised by this; he's been softened by his time away from intrigue. But he is surprised, and he resents it.

Zach shrugs. "Denis said he was going to snitch if Jeff called Jeremy's house. All the people that've been around tonight, we're not gonna be able to keep it a secret."

It's an answer. It isn't an answer. Misha squints at Zach, assessing, then takes the shot. _Because Jeff's your master._

Zach doesn't wince or rock back on his heels. He says, evenly, "Yeah. That's part of it. Even with the Trust, that's always gonna be part of it."

Misha signs a question. _Trust?_

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, Zach mutters, "Jeremy, goddamn it... all right, just. Ask him about that. But Jeff being my master," the word said like it's still bitter in Zach's mouth, "isn't all of it. It's the whole Jeff and Jeremy thing--"

 _Which nobody will tell me about,_ Misha signs.

"-- which has been going on before you, Jensen, me or even freaking Kane. It's ancient history. It's this whole," Zach gestures, indicating the room, the house, the world, "big dramatic elephant in the living room. Nobody talks about the elephant. It's just that when Jeff walks into a room, Jeremy always looks. When Jeremy walks into a room, Jeff always looks."

 _That's quite romantic,_ Misha signs, his expression deadpan. _Do you cry at weddings?_

"All right, if you're gonna ask me the fu-- the question, then listen." There's no real edge to Zach's voice. He strokes Ryzer's hair. "Even if you didn't have the balls to ask. You ought to know before you trip on it. Jeremy and Jeff, they're each other's people. Like Wendy and me. Even when they're trying to stay on opposite sides of LA, even when they're crazy pissed at each other, even when they're both seeing other people. Even if they're probably never going to sleep together again."

Again, Misha thinks, the word thudding in his mind like it was dropped from a great height. He blinks, recalculating, forming a new pattern.

It must show on his face, because Zach shrugs. "So yeah. You're never gonna get Jeremy completely to yourself. He's never going to be normal and he's always going to need Jeff some." Zach flicks his fingers as if shaking ash off a cigarette. "I don't even know if they know that, but I guess you do now. Sorry. Them's the breaks. You've just got to decide if you can live with that."

Misha studies Zach, the untroubled look on his face as if he didn't just say more words in a row than Misha's heard him say ever.

"But what do I know," Zach says, "I'm not the therapy guy."

And he exits, pausing to get a beer out of the fridge, taking Ryzer with him.

Misha picks up the cards, shuffling until he finds all the hearts, and sets them aside.

This is not his game, and so it is wiser not to play.

****

Jeff arrives in less than an hour. It's a speed that indicates that he must have dropped everything and driven above the speed limit.

Wendy has slunk out of the bedroom, washing dishes with unnecessary force until Misha joined her at the sink to help dry. When he glances at her, she's chewing her lip.

They love Jeremy, this tribe of people that Misha only vaguely understands. It would be simpler if they didn't. Misha knew the world as a zero-sum game, his mother against the Man, him against Escrow, Vincent against Society, Jeremy against Sanity. He never had a pack of pushing-shoving intrusive touchy people to deal with before.

They're not his people, at least. That helps.

(He tells himself that it helps.)

Misha hears Jeff's voice first, that rumbling furred voice. Wendy stiffens beside him, her head coming up; Misha takes the glass from her hand before she cracks it with her grip.

"He still here?" Jeff asks, and that's it, Wendy goes to the front door and blocks it with her body.

Words are exchanged. Misha half-listens, putting the glass in its place on the drying rack before he joins Wendy just inside the door. He's taller than she is, though not by much, and over her shoulder he can see two men. Jeff and his bodyslave. Interesting that Jeff brought him here. Interesting that Zach chose to mark time by the bodyslave's arrival, Before Jensen, as if that meant some fundamental shift in the world.

Misha knows the bodyslave's face, an itching familiarity that he can't quite pin down. He could have done so before the accident, he knows, but before the accident, he would have intervened in the parley at the door. Talked fast until everyone was confused and pliable.

What would Jeremy have him do?

He touches Wendy's shoulder, intervening as he still can. She inhales and then steps away from the door. "Don't fuck this up."

Jeff sighs, almost too quiet to hear. Almost. As he comes in the door, Misha can see the resemblance in his face to Javier Bardem. Jeff seems more weary than Javier ever was, but Misha backs up a few steps anyway.

There is some interplay between Jeff and Wendy, an argument, a hug. Misha watches Jensen check his phone, the profile, the full mouth, the scar on his chin... unfashionable for La Morgan's son. Misha would kill or maim for Jensen's provenance, or at least to be awake enough to think clearly.

Vincent would've had Misha's head for checking his phone in a meeting, but perhaps it's business. Misha wants to touch the wrinkled lines of his suit, to correct them because at least another bodyslave might notice his lack of precision. But then, he's ruined and mute now, so suit details are futile.

Jensen returns his phone to his pocket. He looks at Misha.

Misha looks at Jensen.

Jensen raises his hands and signs, _did you know Jeremy is bipolar?_

It's an interesting question, an assumption that Misha isn't informed about his own master's health. Misha considers, then shows Jensen the bottle of pills. They discuss Jeremy's condition, which Misha sums up as 'manic' because it seems more polite than 'madroad driving in bat country' and he's mixing his authors and he is tired again.

He doesn't know if he's being genuine or slipping into the act of naive ingenue, if he's playing or being played, if he's reaching for help or pulling Jensen down. _I don't know how to help him,_ Misha signs. _My master. He's not like..._

Jeff slips into the bedroom with Jeremy. Maybe that's how Misha helps Jeremy best.

Jensen's laugh is a little wry, turned inward. The corners of his eyes scrunch when he laughs. He takes Misha's arm by the elbow. Absently, Jensen tugs the cuff of Misha's sleeve back into perfect alignment. It's a small kindness, and it's disarming.

 _I understand,_ Jensen signs, guiding Misha to the couch before Misha's even really aware that he's being moved. _I'm still struggling to get my own footing. Jeff has been very kind._

Misha feels a prickle of resentment, this pampered housecat of a slave leading him around, but Jensen does it with such poise that Misha's outrage fizzles. He's never been easily handled, but then he's never spent much time around other bodyslaves. Tim's retinue had been quite enough, Danny backbiting and Johnny preferring his own company, and Misha had always been at the top of the food chain. It's puzzling, being pulled aside to converse with another bodyslave while the masters handled business.

 _Yes,_ Misha hedges. _Vincent had a different kindness. I was different, when I wasn't like this._ A gesture to his knee, his head. _Useful._

Jensen doesn't move, not even to fidget, but he seems to become more watchful. His eyes track Misha's scars but don't linger, not disgusted or fascinated. _It took time for Jeff to make use of me,_ Jensen signs.

Misha replays the conversation in his head. _No, Vincent never made use of me in a sexual way. Jeremy's not going to make use of me in a sexual--_

Misha's fingers trip over the sign for 'sexual', both times he uses it.

"Ah," Jensen says softly, then signs, _I see._

Misha scowls at Jensen. _Don't 'ah, I see' at me._

Jensen nods, his gaze dropping demurely as if he's chastened. Then he glances up at Misha, watching him, not without sympathy. It's a look that says Jensen doesn't think Vincent was so kind, not using Misha sexually.

 _I'm not asking you about sex,_ Misha signs warningly, even as he can feel himself thawing out. He wants to talk about it with someone. He wants not to get that sad, sorry, poor slave look if he talks about it, like he's crazy for wishing somebody had fucked him just once. Even cruelly. It feels traitorous, thinking that while Jeremy has trauma nightmares, but he can't stop thinking it. He can't stop wishing somebody had broken him open so he was the kind of slave like Zach or Marisa, the kind of slave Jeremy could fuck. 

As if that doesn't make him even more naive.

Jensen quirks a smile and says, _I'd answer you._

It's the best thing he could've said.

 _I’m a virgin,_ Misha says, and finally he can breathe. 

Jensen signs, _I can help you with that._


	27. Chapter 27

They linger at Zach and Wendy's for a week. Jeremy works his way through the first titration pack of Lamictal, the ovals of Seroquel like slivers of blue moon, the neon of mania bleeding down into the gray cotton of depression. Misha feeds him pills with unflinching patience, makes him Gatorade by gallons to ward off the Lamictal headaches, and stiffly ignores every attempt to spell him in this duty-- including Jeremy’s.

The blood test comes and goes, unceremoniously, and Jeremy’s clean. He doesn’t feel the antiseptic relief of that first blood test post-hospital, when he’d been afraid for months that the guard had given him a disease to go with the nightmares. He doesn’t feel clean, but he feels safe. Safer when Zach fucks him without a condom that night, Jeremy trying to muffle his deep grateful cries against the curve of Wendy’s throat.

Jeremy sleeps a lot. He wraps himself in sweaters and quilts and hoodies, and is still freezing. He keeps his mouth shut, mostly, for fear of saying something stupid.

He watches Misha, and he keeps his hands to himself.

****

Jeremy gets up in the middle of the night, unable to stand his dry-mouth any more, and finds Misha awake.

He's perched on the edge of the couch, reading one of Wendy's library-sale romance novels. Zach's clothes, a borrowed t-shirt and sweatpants, look strange on Misha; fuck, even Misha's pajamas had been more tailored than clothes Zach wore out of the house. Vincent would be stroking out if he could see this, the clothes and the romance both. Jeremy can just picture the old man's face, his cross expression: _"did you set out to corrupt my son or was it a happy accident?"_

Jeremy doesn't think Vincent ever called Misha his son to his face.

Misha's hair sticks up in damp fisted spikes, fresh from the shower. There are bruised circles under his eyes. There's a cup of tea on the coffee table, a stack of other books by Misha's bad knee. Jeremy wants to touch his hair, the nape of his neck, to rest his thumbs in the hollows of Misha's clavicle. He feels very aware of the sex-sweat on his skin.

Jeremy grips the back of the couch with both hands, trying to keep them to himself. "Can't sleep?"

Misha shrugs eloquently. The neck of his shirt slips towards his shoulder, and he tugs at it, but not before Jeremy catches the glint of Vincent's collar.

Following Jeremy’s gaze, Misha touches the collar. His expression is an uneasy mix of self-consciousness and defiance.

Jeremy wants to ask a thousand questions: _how bad are you hurting? does the collar help? why aren’t you sleeping? will you come to bed?_ Instead he settles for the safe question, the coward’s question, which is, “What kind of tea do you want?”

Whatever argument Misha expected, Jeremy’s derailed it. Misha gentles, his thumb still resting in a faint groove on the collar. _What you’re having is fine._

Sure, Jeremy thinks, sure it is. Suddenly he feels for Jeff. He wants Jeff there, to shake him down for advice and to apologize for not being around and to ask how many new gray hairs in Jeff’s beard came from Jensen.

None of Jeremy’s slaves have ever been the vulnerable type, even Marisa in the early days with her shaved head coming in peach-fuzz, even Denis coming off junk. None of them would have followed him into the desert and made him Gatorade and then told him whatever tea he was drinking was fine.

He’s maybe overthinking this.

He could hurt Misha so bad. It’s like putting the keys to a Maserati in the hands of a blind man, just a wreck waiting to happen. Always crashing in the same car, as Bowie said.

Jeremy remembers how Misha’s throat felt in his hand, that first night, his fingers like the collar. But he also remembers the way Misha had looked at him, his expression a blank canvas, not like his stubborn funny self.

No. Jeremy doesn’t have the excuse of being manic anymore. Fuck, Misha’d knelt in front of Jeremy. All their wires are crossed wrong now. Better to give Misha his space.

Jeremy makes them both Sleepytime tea, the one with the bear in a nightcap on the box; he brings the two mugs and sets them on the coffee table in front of Misha. Then he picks up the discarded deck of cards and begins to shuffle them.

Misha turns his body towards Jeremy, close enough to touch. For a moment Jeremy thinks Misha might cross the distance between them, but he doesn’t. They don’t.

 _Aren’t you going back to bed?_ Misha asks him.

“Nope,” Jeremy says simply, and deals.

***

There's rain coming again. Jeremy can feel it in the late afternoon wind. The new drugs are still syrupy-slow in his head, in his veins, but it's better than yesterday and the day before that. He'd been falling asleep easier than Ryzer, feeling just as cranky when he tried to resist the implacable arms of afternoon naps. That had been frustrating.

He sits on the back porch of Zach and Wendy's, with Z on his guitar idling through the Eagles' discography. Somehow, between Zach and Jeff, Jeremy always ends up listening to the same cover of Lying Eyes. At least Zach put him to work snapping green beans for dinner, something to do with his hands instead of smoking an extra two packs a day.

“Ought to go home tomorrow,” Jeremy says. “Denis is kirking out.”

Zach glances at him, not pausing in his idle strumming.

Over in the corner of the yard, Misha and Ryzer are picking baby tomatoes from the vine. Nominally the tomatoes are supposed to go in a basket, but mostly Ryzer seems to be eating them. Misha sits in the grass and the dirt, heedless of his suit, his bad leg stretched out in front of him. His feet are bare, making Jeremy wonder if Misha's that moon-pale everywhere.

Ryzer picks a tomato and holds it out to Misha, stubbornly resisting any attempts Misha makes at trying to give the tomato back. When Misha opens his mouth, Ryzer pops the tomato into it and bursts into laughter. They grin at each other.

"He's good people," Zach says, his eyes on the frets as if he a) doesn't have muscle memory to match his guitar calluses, and b) he ever stops watching Ryzer around strangers. “The kid likes him.”

Jeremy hums an agreement. He didn't expect that, Misha knowing what to do with a kid aside from not letting him play with machetes. As far as he knew, Misha didn't even know any kids. But maybe dealing with Jeremy had prepared Misha for living with a toddler.

“I like him,” Zach continues after a pregnant pause.

Jeremy gives him the side-eye. “You got a point there, Zachariah?”

The corner of Zach’s mouth quirks up. He stops playing for a moment, fiddling with the tuning key in a way that reminds Jeremy heart-twistingly of Kane, and then says too casually, “Misha’s not sleeping.”

“No,” Jeremy replies, drawing out the word into an implied question, trying to be careful.

“He could sleep in the bed. If he wanted.”

Jeremy blinks. Zach is fiercely protective of his family, his home, his bed. He sleeps all elbows and knees, and sometimes he can’t stomach another man nearby when he’s vulnerable. He’s risking a lot to offer Jeremy this, his sleep overlaid with all the other masters before Jeff.

Tenderly, Jeremy cards through the curls at the nape of Zach’s neck and then cups his hand there. “No, man. That’s okay. Thanks.”

Zach tilts his head for better petting. “Sure. Go back to your yip dog. And Winston.”

“I’ll give Denis your regards.” Jeremy rests his thumb against the stubborn muscle where Zach’s neck gives way to shoulder. “I love you.”

“I know that, baby,” Zach says, the endearment made filthy-hot instead of cloying. When Jeremy hisses, surprised by how easy it turns his crank, Zach smirks at him. He repeats, more aggravating and less sweet, “I know. I’m freaking Han Solo.”

Jeremy throws a green bean at him.

****

So they go home.

Being back in his own house, with his bed and his shampoo and his dog, comforts Jeremy in a primal way. Marisa’s shit is gone. When he goes looking, it turns out that Gina’s stuff is, too. That explains why Denis had looked so goddamn tired, which he’d worry about more if Denis didn’t immediately give himself the weekend off.

He’d stuck around to eat takeout, kvetch about always eating at the same place, steal the shrimp out of Jeremy’s fried rice, accuse Misha of pretending to be mute just so he didn’t have to talk to Jeremy, try to shovel more food on Misha’s plate, rant about LA vegetarians, and imply that he’d still fuck Jeremy’s little sister. That was, in their language, practically sonnets of undying affection.

Denis is probably off to the strip club with Kane. Whatever. God knew Denis deserved it. Jeremy would’ve given him a kidney if he’d asked.

“I ought to go work,” Jeremy says, after the dishes have been washed.

Misha’s just sitting at the table, blinking slow heavy blinks, hands cupped around his mug of tea. He doesn’t seem to have heard what Jeremy said.

Jeremy stops himself from stroking Misha’s hair back from his forehead like he’s a sleepy kid. “Mish,” he says, pouring that gentleness into the word. “Go to bed, okay?”

Misha cranes his head back to look up at Jeremy. His eyes look darker tonight. He nods, agreeable, but doesn’t move when Jeremy makes good on his promise to go work.

The Miller account left a stack of files the length of Jeremy’s forearm. That’s its own relief, work like white noise blocking out the sirens in his head. When Jeremy retreats to the living room sofa with a chunk of statements to audit, Winston lurks in his line of sight. The dog’s sulky now after his initial ecstatic greeting, like he just figured out that for Jeremy to come back he had to first leave. He’s pleased by Jeremy’s peace offering of bacon, settling in to gnaw at it.

Jeremy turns on the television to keep him company, folds himself up on the couch... and just sits there, listening for Misha to go upstairs. There’s nothing, no sign Misha’s shifted from his sentinel post at the kitchen table.

Dropping the remote onto the paperwork, Jeremy heads back into the kitchen. Misha’s still at the table, looking lost, and that aches. Jeremy goes to him, hovering for an awkward moment; when Misha doesn’t look up at him, his attention angled at the kitchen floor, Jeremy sits on the floor in his way.

Maybe it’s him trying to make up for Misha kneeling, even for a few seconds, but it seems to be the right approach. Misha looks at him, a crinkle between his eyebrows like Jeremy’s puzzled him, but at least he’s stopped the thousand yard stare.

“Hey,” Jeremy says. “You okay?”

 _I’m sorry,_ Misha signs. _About the pills._

“We talked about how that saved my life, right?”

Misha flicks his fingers at him, like an irritated cat trying to express its disdain. _That’s bullshit,_ he signs, _you’re angry about something._

It occurs to Jeremy how quiet the house is, only his voice to break it. “I’m not angry. Why do you say I’m angry?”

 _Because,_ Misha signs, snapping off the words, _you've tried not to touch me since you woke up. You’ve been careful._

Jeremy blinks. “I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

 _You didn’t ask,_ Misha signs, but all the hurt in his expression has worn away. He seems more indignant now. _You could have, before making this apparently unilateral decision to spare me from your-- company._

Jeremy doesn’t think he’s imagining that Misha almost signed something instead of company. He can hear Vincent in that riot act, certainly, and he smiles a little. Misha narrows his eyes at him but doesn’t kick him in the face.

“You’re right,” Jeremy says. “I’m sorry. I should’ve talked to you.”

Misha rolls his eyes and spreads his hands, like he’s demonstrating to God this fool he’s been saddled with.

“I’m asking,” Jeremy says. “This is me, asking.”

He expects that to be the end of it, and so he gets up. As soon as he’s on his feet, Misha catches his hand. Misha’s fingers are cool. Misha puts Jeremy’s unresisting hand on him, on his shoulder. Then, watching Jeremy’s face, Misha guides Jeremy’s hand to his throat. Jeremy jerks, and Misha doesn’t try to hold him, but he sits with his throat offered to Jeremy’s fingers.

 _I want you to touch me,_ Misha signs, his eyes still intent on Jeremy.

“I’m not manic,” Jeremy says, like that explains anything outside his own head. Then, because Misha is still fucking watching him with those eyes, Jeremy rests the tips of his fingers on Misha’s throat. When Misha doesn’t flinch or hit him, instead tipping into the touch, Jeremy lets out a shuddering breath. He’s hard and he’s grateful for the way this hoodie covers his hips.“You don’t ask for much, do you.”

 _I can’t stop being a slave, Jeremy,_ Misha signs. _You're my master. You can’t change it by torturing yourself._

“You sound like Cate.”

 _I can live with that,_ Misha muses, and butts his head against Jeremy’s arm. Amused, Jeremy pets his hair. Misha hums, a startling reminder that Misha isn’t completely silent, and that guns the engine on a thousand filthy thoughts Jeremy shouldn’t be having.

“Come on,” he says, and rests his hand on Misha’s shoulder. “We’ll watch some TV and I’ll do some work and you’ll probably fall asleep in five minutes.”

 _I will not,_ Misha protests.

Five minutes later, spooned firmly against Jeremy like they’re two necking teenagers, Misha does indeed pass out. Winston drapes himself across their feet. Jeremy works, comforted by the even rhythm of Misha’s breathing.


	28. Chapter 28

Cozy light spills into the kitchen, casting shadows past the elegant shapes of Misha's hands. Jeremy leans back in his chair to crack his back and neck, trying to figure out what Misha and Denis are discussing (arguing about) now.

Denis talks like a machine gun in an old gangster movie, bang-bang-bang, except every third ‘bang’ replaced by ‘fuck’. Not many people can take it, but Misha seems unfazed. It probably helps that Misha can talk over Denis without getting into a volume war. (Denis always wins volume wars.)

“-- and that’s why normal people drink coffee, goddamn it, we didn’t throw tea in the harbor for you fucking hippies to sip your camomile with your pinkies up--”

Misha pointedly sips his tea with his middle finger raised. 

“Yeah, if you were caffeinated, you’d give me two of those, buddy.”

Smiling, Misha signs, _if you weren’t drinking so much espresso you could fuck for longer than twenty disappointing seconds at a stretch._

“Go ask your mom about it.”

_Necrophilia is illegal in all fifty states._

If Jeremy didn’t watch so many Denis-Kane bullshit sessions, he wouldn’t see Denis dart a searching look at Misha. Assessing: did he just cross a line? Misha’s smile grows sharper edges and Denis relaxes, growling. “You do a lot of research into that, gimpy?”

The phone rings. Jeremy scoops it up, tucking it between his shoulder and ear. It may not muffle Denis entirely, but it’s his personal line and so they’ve probably heard worse. "Yeah, hi, what."

"Hey, Jer," Marisa says. "I heard you were in the desert eating locusts."

Something in his posture must betray him, because Denis shuts up. Jeremy glances at them over his shoulder. Denis curls his lip. Shamelessly, Misha studies Jeremy like this is an interesting bomb disposal.

Jeremy takes his phone out onto the porch. Once he’s out of earshot, he says, “Hey.”

More dead air hangs between them. Awkward. Were they always so awkward together? 

“Hey,” he tries again, brighter. “How’s Seattle? How’s Gina?”

“Rainy. She’s okay. Misses the dog. She says to thank Den for packing her up so quick.” Marisa snerks a little. “She wants to send him cookies. Goddamn cookies, can you imagine?”

“Maybe if they’re cookies made out of cigarettes.”

“She mentioned gluten free, actually.”

“If she does, I’ll send pictures of Denis’s face.” 

“I could just come home,” Marisa says. Her voice is casual, as if it means nothing to her. 

They’ve been together for years, in various ways, but he doesn’t know when something matters to her. He thinks her philosophy is that whoever cares more in a fight is the one who loses. It might be an artifact of her time as a pharmaceutical subject, the damage they did to her, or she might’ve always been like this. Whether it’s nature or nurture, the effect is the same, but he wonders anyway. 

Jeremy leans against the porch rail. His stomach hurts with how much he wants to yell at her _what the fuck are you doing? is this on purpose?_ But he eats his anger, like he always does. He can’t yell at her. It’s not her fault.

“Jeremy,” she prompts. 

On again, off again, like the world’s worst strobe light. Once Denis had switched Jeremy’s ringtone for her to the Masochism Tango. 

It wasn’t her fault that Jeremy twigged out and went into the desert. The meds had been wrong, he’d been going manic, she was just the stressor that pushed him off the ledge. That’s all. He can’t make his craziness her fault, because it’s not fair to her. 

“Okay,” Marisa says, “the silent treatment is a little third grade for my tastes.”

He takes a deep breath, lets it out. “What about Scott?”

“Meh. Scott lost interest while I was in the monkey house. I’m sure he’d be down to fuck, he’s a dude, but I’m over it.”

Jeremy rubs the bridge of his nose. “What about Gina?”

“What about her?” The phone crackles a little as she exhales. He can just see her, phone pinned between the jut of her shoulder and her ear so she can chainsmoke. She smokes more when she’s starting a new medication, like he does, which is something nobody gets. Nobody but them. “She can stay up here. Get a house full of cats and a vegan girl to cook for.”

The words _what about Misha?_ are right on Jeremy’s tongue, but he keeps quiet. He doesn’t know if she would even know the name. Part of him is incandescently pissed, the other agonized with how much he wants to tell her yes. _Yes, of course, yes; come home. I love you._ If he tips too far into one or the other, he’s going to say something stupid. It feels like the pressure of his fingers on his forehead are the only thing keeping his skull together.

“You said we were over,” he says. 

“You know, if you’re pissed, just say it. Stop trying to be all patient with your crazy girlfriend. It’s not as cute as you think. Goddamn it, are we so messed up that you won’t even fight with me?”

“We can’t skip ahead to the part where I agree you’re still my girlfriend.”

“Oh, so you’re going to dump me in the hospital? Wow, that is some Jeff Morgan bullshit.”

“Stop,” he tells her, voice scraping his throat. 

Her voice rises in volume and in scorn. “And now what, you replace me with some sweet little cripple? Why, so he can’t run? Can’t talk back and hurt your feelings? You think you’re so moral but you’re pathetic--”

Jeremy hangs up on her. 

In the sudden quiet, he stares at the phone like it's a coiled snake. He waits for it to begin ringing, unsure if he’ll pitch it over the fence or if he’ll pick it up. What if he pushed her off the wagon? What if that was her cry for help? If they find her body in the street tomorrow, he can’t, he’ll…

The phone doesn’t ring. He doesn’t pick it up and call her back. He takes deep, steady breaths. If was a crying kind of person, it might be cathartic, but he isn’t. 

Maybe this is what killing zombies feels like. Putting a bullet in an undead relationship before it eats you.

Yeah, that’s probably not the nicest thing Jeremy’s ever thought.

A cup of soup is set beside Jeremy’s elbow. He turns and looks at Misha’s tired, worried face. Misha leans on the rail next to him. There are thin white pain lines around his mouth. 

Nodding at the cup, Misha signs, _this is food. You put it in your face._

Jeremy snorts, the ache in his chest cracking to let some light in. “As always, I’m in awe of your tact and patience.”

Misha bows sardonically. _You sound like Vincent. Only you don’t call me darling boy._

“You want me to?” 

_An interesting offer. We can discuss pet names if you’d like._ For a second, Jeremy thinks Misha might strike him where it’s tender: sweetheart. But that’s only Marisa’s venom leaking through his brain, because Misha adds, _I’m thinking bunny._

“What, no honeybunch?”

 _Too reminiscent of cereal. I--_ His cane, which he propped up on the porch rail, clatters to the ground. Misha glances down at it, sour, then signs: _I’m like a ninja._

Retrieving the cane, Jeremy offers its handle. Misha studies him, then rests his fingers over top of Jeremy’s. His fingers are cool, his touch light, and Jeremy feels it to the nape of his neck.

“How long have you been eavesdropping?” he asks.

Misha shrugs, which means long enough. _Are you angry?_

“No,” Jeremy says automatically. When Misha raises one eyebrow, he amends, “Not at you. Expecting you not to spy is like expecting you not to blink. You could try but you’d be unhappy and I’d be worried and, I don’t know, your eyes would dry up or something. I’m all out of metaphor.”

_Maybe lunch would help._

“Make you a deal? I’ll eat the sandwich, you take a couple pills. And a nap.”

Misha grimaces. _That hardly seems like a fair exchange._

Jeremy reaches out to touch the engraved lines like parentheses around Misha’s mouth. Carefully, gently, he smoothes the pad of his thumb across the pain-lines. Misha’s stubble makes a soft scritching noise. Misha slits his eyes, his mouth relaxing. His mouth is pale and generous and chapped. It looks soft to touch.

It is a ridiculously bad idea to stand here looking at Misha’s mouth. 

Jeremy tries not to yank back like Misha scalded him, but he’s not sure he succeeds. Misha regains his usual wry alertness, all edges and aches. 

Belated, Jeremy says, “My brain is pretty much fried for numbers. Maybe we can watch a movie instead. Skip the nap. You’re overdue on a prescription of bad sci-fi with rubber monsters.”

And they’ll probably both fall asleep mid-movie, Misha because muscle relaxants knock him out and Jeremy because he’s still on a year’s backlog of sleep debt. Misha studies him as if Jeremy’s tricks are transparent to him, which they probably are. Fuck, Misha is too smart for him even when he’s on his game. He should’ve gone to someone sharper, someone better.

Misha tilts his chin stubbornly up. _I’m not a cheap date. I require popcorn and snuggling._

“Anything you want.”

With a contented hum, Misha signs, _then I want to know about the Trust._

Jeremy blinks. Blinks again. 

Misha drums his fingers on Jeremy’s hand, still clinging to Misha’s cane. _Have I murdered you?_

Clearing his throat, Jeremy tries, “Who told you? Jensen?”

Misha wrinkles his nose. _Jensen wouldn’t tell anyone anything. Zach assumed you’d already told me, but apparently I need to work on my poker face. I asked Denis and he made… well, the same face you’re making._

Jeremy doesn’t think he’s making a face. He retrieves his hand from the cane, rubbing self-consciously at his mouth. “I’m surprised you didn’t rifle through my desk.”

Misha raises his eyebrows. _Shall I?_

“No, it’s. I’m sorry, it’s fine. Zach’s right, I should’ve told you. I can trust you.”

Misha’s smile gentles his whole face.


	29. Chapter 29

"Hey, I think this is for you."

Misha looks up from the battered, spine-broken copy of Georgette Heyer. He found it in the library, figuring at first that it was Gina's until he discovered Denis's cramped notes in the margin. Misha has read Heyer enough times that the running marginal commentary provides most of the entertainment.

Jeremy sets a little box down in front of Misha. It looks fancy. Misha raises an eyebrow at Jeremy, silent question mark, and Jeremy raises his hands. "It's from Jensen, apparently. Kane dropped it off."

Which clarifies nothing. Misha bookmarks the Heyer and puts it aside so he can examine the box. 

Within the box is a card and a well-padded pot of cream. It looks ominously expensive in its smoked glass and silver lid. Creme de la Mer. Misha's mother always joked that French brand names cost extra.

The card says, in Jensen's neat hand, 'I suggest this before any more educational or recreational kissing.'

Misha snerks, then opens the jar to sniff it. Strange smell. He sticks his tongue in it. Strange taste.

If Vincent was alive, he'd tell Misha that a dignified (or long-lived) man did not taste substances sent by virtual strangers. It would be good advice. But Jeremy only watches him, apparently rapt.

Jeremy says, "I don't think Jensen got you that to eat."

Misha sets the lip balm down and relids it. _I don't know why he got me it at all._

"I don't know why Jensen does pretty much anything."

_Untrue. You just wish you didn't know._

Jeremy shrugs, conceding the point, whether it's about trauma or about Jeff or both. "Probably good he doesn't know Jeff uses Carmex. He might stroke out."

No, Misha thinks, Jensen would probably say that as a master Jeff could do whatever he liked. Also, Misha doubts that Jensen doesn't intimately know what Jeff puts on or in his mouth. 

Sometimes Jeremy's interpretation of other people was eerily accurate, but sometimes he could be oblivious. Really, he was lucky to have Misha around to do it for him. 

****

That night, Misha waits puts the little jar of lip balm on the bathroom counter. It looks strange next Misha's toothbrush, the only thing he's put there so far. He considers that there should be a word for feeling embarrassed and grateful at the same time.

He glances at himself in the mirror, his scuffed and dry mouth, then around for any sign of Jeremy. Then he puts the lip balm on.

It still tastes funny, but Jeremy's attention keeps snagging on his lips all night.

****

Misha buys flowers to thank Jensen, mostly because he lacks any other ideas. What do you buy for a man who has everything and nothing? 

It still takes him ninety minutes to pick an arrangement. Expensive but tasteful; not too heavily scented; nothing that could be misconstrued as a romantic overture; nothing cliched; nothing poisonous in case of dogs, cats or toddlers.

Buying years of gifts on Vincent's behalf should have prepared him, but no. He discovers, awkwardly, that he cares about Jensen's good opinion. 

In the end, he buys a small succulent garden. He doesn't want to give Jensen something beautiful and dead. 

****

When the pain wakes Misha in the small hours that night, he reaches for his cell phone. He checks the confirmation order for Jensen's gift. Then he asks Google: **how do you friend?**

The results all suggest buying a new slave to be a companion. 

Misha backs out, then tries again: **how do you people?**

Also not helpful. Apparently he's going to have to figure it out on his own.

****

Tactically, Misha should keep Jensen close. Jensen is close to Jeff, who seems like the epicenter of their whole social circle as well as the head of Morgan International and… whatever he is to Jeremy. 

Here in Jeremy’s house, Misha is cut off from the prime gossip. He knows Denis, who knows Christian Kane, but Denis isn’t interested in what Misha wants to know. When Misha tries to ask about it, Denis 1) squints at him, 2) asks why he’s getting the fucking third degree, and 3) tells him to fuck off and/or get a hobby. 

Misha flips him off with both hands. He’s glad they’re really communicating.

 _What do you know about Jensen?_ he adds, before loses Denis’s attention.

"He's crazy," Denis replies immediately. He has a coffee mug in one hand and a book in the other. He's trying to quit smoking for undisclosed mind-your-own-business reasons, and he drinks coffee like he chain smokes, in aggressive swigs. Misha keeps waiting for Denis to hit himself in the face with the book. At least he's remembering to watch Misha's hands this time.

When Denis doesn't say anything else, Misha prompts, _is that it?_

Denis shrugs. "He's not that interesting."

Misha squints. One could describe Jensen in many ways, but uninteresting isn't one of them. _Jeremy's crazy._

Denis snorts. "No shit? Jeremy's like fucking jump off a bridge crazy. You know, down the road and not across the street crazy. You give him pills and he's mostly alright. You couldn't fix Jensen with the whole fucking pharmacy."

_What's wrong with him?_

"He's like... okay, say Morgan gets it in his head one morning that he wants to run over a guy. Jensen would go lay down in the driveway and he'd smile about it. Because that's just what you do, that's what bodyslaves are for. Poor kid’s damn lucky Morgan’s not that guy." After a moment, Denis grimaces. “So yeah: fucking crazy.”

***

The sum of things Misha knows about Jensen:  
\- Denis thinks he’s crazy;  
\- They spent an evening together while Zach and Wendy were fucking Jeremy;  
\- Jensen sympathizes about the difficulty of abolitionist masters ;  
\- They kissed for practice. It was nice.   
\- Jensen was kind to him when he didn’t have to be;  
\- Jeff adores him as much as Jensen adores Jeff. It’s understandable. Jensen is cripplingly pretty with hangups about loving his master. But it’s not the adoration of an owner and a lovely bit of art, as far as Misha can tell. It’s got feelings behind it.  
\- It’d be easier if Jeff was more like his asshole brother. Misha likes disliking him. It makes things simpler.   
\- Refraining from vehicular homicide doesn’t set a high bar for Morgan’s behavior, but the way he watches Jensen like he set the sun in the sky is undeniable.

***

A few days pass. Then Misha gets a text. The first one is just a picture of the succulent arrangement, which has pride of place in a sunny office. The second text: _thank you for the gift. It’s lovely._

Misha studies his phone. The smoothness of Jensen’s courtesy leaves few handholds. _Thank you for the lipbalm. It’s slippery._ After a moment, he adds a smiley.

Smilies are the lubricant of electronic communication. 

Jensen texts back: _did you use it?_

_Yes, and I think it helped._

Jensen’s text: _did Jeremy like it?_ Then, hesitantly, _:)_

“What are you smiling at?” Jeremy asks. “Kittens? Rainbows? Rainbow kittens?”

 _Nothing yet,_ Misha says, and tucks the phone in his jacket pocket. It sits warm against his chest, like a happy secret.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is entangled with [Chapter 67](http://archiveofourown.org/works/253311/chapters/399444) of poisontaster's excellent fic A Kept Boy. I recommend that you read her version first, because it details more of the actual dinner / conversation. Basically my version is from the Jeremy and Misha angle.

Misha looks over the Trust files three times. Once in front of Jeremy, who hands him the stack after his explanation and seems to expect that Misha wants to examine it. Misha does, and then asks if they considered encrypting it. Jeremy looks a little skeptical, then thoughtful.

 _The fireproof safe won’t help much if someone has a warrant,_ Misha said.

“If somebody has a warrant, we’re already fucked,” Jeremy said. Then he sat down and peered at the papers over Misha’s shoulder. If anybody else tried that, Misha would’ve elbowed them in the stomach a few times (by “accident”). “What kind of ciphers?”

The second time they went over it together because they were arguing about ciphers. 

“Escrow isn’t exactly known for mathematic skills.” 

_They don’t need to know math, they just need to enter the data into a rot-13 generator. An intern could solve it in an hour even if you include a bathroom break. A keyed Vigenere cipher is much better._ Jeremy’s cell rings in the middle of his sentence; Misha adds, _I can’t get that for you._

“Funny.” Jeremy picks up the phone. Regrettably, he rolls his chair a polite distance away. “Hey.”

Misha rolls his eyes. Minimalism in action. 

Immediately, Misha knows Jeff is on the phone, because Jeremy sits up straighter. Whatever Jeff says makes Jeremy frown. Misha resists the urge to lean closer and attempt to eavesdrop. 

“Wow, that sucks. Fuck her... yeah, sounds like a reality show in the making.” Pause. “I’m just saying, your mom’s probably sold the rights. _Are You Good Enough for My Son: the Answer Is Always No._ It could go straight to syndication-- okay, it’s a little funny. Mostly it sucks.” Pause. “Dude, I’ll be there. Ethopian?”

Muffled reply from Jeff. Jeremy makes agreeing noises and hangs up without saying goodbye. Then he turns a long look on Misha.

After a long couple seconds, Misha asks, _what?_

“I’m thinking about taking you to dinner.”

Misha raises his eyebrows. _We go to dinner sometimes. I’m not much company on the floor. Tonight?_

“No, in a couple days. A Trust meeting. I already showed you all the paperwork.”

 _There’s a difference between that and bringing me to an actual meeting. I haven’t been part of your group for long. A month, maybe._

Jeremy shrugs. “I trust you. With my life. Which, by the way, you literally saved. So fuck them. They don’t have to like it.”

_I don’t want you to be alienated from your friends over it._

Jeremy snorts. “Zach and Wendy are already on your side. Denis, too. I think you’re kind of friends with Jensen.”

 _Does Denis go to these meetings?_ When Jeremy makes a face, Misha carefully says, _did Marisa?_

“No,” Jeremy says. His gaze drops to his fidgeting hands. “No, she never did.”

Which raises the question of how much she knows, but Jeremy’s already uncomfortable. Misha taps him to get his attention back, cutting off his apology with, _what is the meeting about? To discuss ciphers and how wrong you are about them?_

“Okay, one, I’m not wrong. Two…” Jeremy hesitates. “It’s about Jeff. He needs to get married.”

Misha blinks, then slumps back in his chair. _I’ll go. I can’t resist a trainwreck._

“That’s why we’re friends,” Jeremy says, and beams.

Jeremy considers them friends. Misha feels warmth for Jeremy, but Jeremy likes him when he could have real free people instead. Misha made friends, multiple, when he hadn’t had any. Maybe he’s not so terrible at this.

It’s nice, having friends.

Tentatively, Misha smiles back.

****

Jensen looks radiant.

Jeremy takes one look at him, blinks as if sun-dazzled, then looks at the floor. “Hey, Jen. I’m going to make the rounds. Where’s Jeff?”

“He’s by Mistress Ever and Leah,” Jensen says promptly, as if Jeremy asked him where his left arm is. Of course he knows where Jeff is.

“I’m starving, I’m gonna go bother him.” Jeremy vacates the premises. 

Misha squints at his back, then gives Jensen his full attention. _Hi. You look happy._

“I am happy,” Jensen says, with the pleased but wary air like he’s waiting for the trap to spring. “Do you want to sit?”

 _I would love to sit,_ Misha says. A little fervently, from Jensen’s sympathetic smile and how quietly he finds them both seats.

The seats are cushions on the floor. Misha can see the intention, that slaves and masters could sit on the same level without scrutiny, but can’t say his leg appreciates it. He’d be kneeling on the floor at any restaurant, but if he’d stayed home with Denis, he’d be on a very comfortable couch right now. Jensen offers him a hand but doesn’t insist Misha take it. 

Once they’re on the floor, Jensen goes to the other side of the table and sits. Misha tries not to resent the smooth way he kneels, his automatic grace. Jensen says, “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

 _No one expects the Misha inquisition._ Misha glances at Jensen. _That’s from--_

“Monty Python,” Jensen says with him. “Jeff insisted it was part of my cultural education.”

 _He used that line too?_ Misha shakes his head. _Did he try to show you the Big Lebowski?_

“Yes. I think there’s a list.”

They smile at each other. Sharing a joke. Like friends, Misha thinks a little giddily, then chews the inside of his cheek. He can hear Vincent telling him to have some dignity, for God’s sake.

Misha takes out a painkiller and half a muscle relaxant; a full one and he’d be semi-conscious by the entree. He would dry swallow them, but that’s apparently too much for Jensen, because he firmly pushes a bottle of water at Misha. Ruefully, Misha accepts. _Jeremy asked me to accompany him._

“It might make some people uncomfortable.”

Misha shrugs. _I didn’t plan on saying anything. That was an aphasia joke, by the way._

“I got that,” Jensen says dryly. “Just being here and observing will make them more nervous.”

_There’s not much I can do about that. If I talk, if I don’t, if I stay here or go home, people will be nervous. Understandably. I wouldn’t trust me. Anyway, Denis wouldn’t keep Jeremy company. He needed a bodyslave._

“It took them time to accept me. I’m not sure they have, entirely.” Jensen gives him that glowing smile again. “The only approval that matters is my m-- is Jeff’s.”

Before Misha can figure out what to say to that, Jeremy drops into the cushion beside him. “Oof. Hey. I think everybody’s getting their shit together. You had Ethiopian before?”

Misha gives him a wry look. _Not to Vincent’s taste._

Jeremy grunts sympathetically. Glances at Jensen. “What do you like?”

Aw. He’s trying, even if he seems painfully awkward about it. Under the table, Misha takes his hand and squeezes it. 

They order an optimistic amount of food. There’s several interruptions as people Misha doesn’t know come to talk to Jeremy. Jeremy keeps introducing Misha, who tries to remember names while avoiding conversation. He doesn’t know who knows sign. He has the notebook and pen he uses to communicate as a last resort, or Jeremy could translate, but this isn’t his venue.

Also, he has to admit that the multiple layers of conversation are bothering him. It didn’t when he was with Vincent. He read that pain and aphasia could do that. He thought (he hoped) that he was immune, that pure stubbornness could protect him. Arrogant, but true. 

He feels an unwelcome moment of heartsickness. Once he could listen and converse and perhaps soften the edge of suspicion he sees in people’s sidelong glances. It shouldn’t bother him. The suspicion isn’t the problem; feeling useless is. Self-pity is.

Feelings are stupid. 

Brent, the lawyer who helped structure the Trust, is a tired man with a Seattle accent. He arrives alone, which Misha gathers is some surprise. Jeremy doesn’t ask about it, and Brent returns the favor by not asking after Marisa. Awkwardness dodged. They agree that the other looks good. In Jeremy’s case, Misha thinks it’s true, but Brent seems ragged.

A blond woman in slouchy but fashionable clothes stops by their table; she’s trailing a second woman, a brunette with solemn expression and laughing eyes. The blond puts her hands on her hips like a gunslinger as she studies Misha. 

“Hi, Ev,” Jeremy says, half greeting and half warning in his voice. “Good to see you. No fighting in the war room.”

“So you’re Misha,” Ever says. 

Misha gives her his best benign bodyslave smile. Signs, _you have me at a disadvantage._

Blatant lie. He knew enough of the Carradine branch of the Morgan family, and put together enough of mentions of Jeremy’s friends, to know she’s probably Mistress Ever Carradine. Her companion is probably Leah, a bodyslave. But he’s trying not to give the impression of knowing or seeing too much.

Leah leans close to Ever’s ear and murmurs to her. Translating sign. Ever nods and thrusts her hand out. It’s the most confrontational handshake Misha’s ever been offered, but when he accepts she’s gentle with his hand. “I’m Ever. This is Leah. I’m here to be intimidating and to try to feel you out.”

“Everybody’s pretending this is the Mafia,” Jeremy says without apparent venom. Misha might be imagining the edge of irritation beneath. “The stoner Mafia, maybe.”

Leah laughs, a surprisingly gaudy laugh for a slave. Misha likes her better for it. He leans forward to offer her a handshake, too. It makes Ever’s expression soften a little. 

To Jeremy, Ever says, “You look halfway domesticated.”

Jeremy grins. “You look like you bang your cousin.”

“You look like _you_ wanna bang my cousin,” Ever teases, and aggressively rumples Jeremy’s hair.

“Aw, c’mon!” Jeremy curls his arms around his head, defensive, glaring at her from under them. “Rude, man, do you even know how long it takes to look this good?”

“Ah, vanity, thy name is Sisto.” Ever pokes the tip of his nose. “Boop.”

“So glad we have this quality time together,” Jeremy grumbles, trying to preen his hair back into order. “Leah, rein in your woman.”

“But I like her better than you,” Leah says. 

Ever curls an arm around her, resting her head on Leah’s slim shoulder. “It’s good to see you,” she tells Jeremy.

“Yeah,” Jeremy says fondly. “You too. Now go away, I’m allergic to feelings.”

“Feelings are allergic to you,” Ever says. “Nice to meet you, Misha. Consider this the shovel talk.”

Once they’ve walked away, Misha asks Jeremy, _what’s the shovel talk?_

Jeremy sighs. “You know. ‘If you hurt my friend, they’ll never find the body.’ Etcetera, etcetera.”

 _I don’t blame them for being protective of the Trust,_ Misha signs, meaning that he can’t blame them for being protective of Jeremy. _But if she was going for intimidating, she should’ve threatened to break the other kneecap._

****

In Misha’s defense, climbing into Jeremy’s lap seems like a good idea at the time. 

There were servers coming in with roasting coffee, and the conversation paused as soon as the door opened is like a glowing neon sign: shifty business here. Jeremy’s been tense all dinner, like the meeting is a tightrope he has to walk. Jeff and Jensen have been canoodling all night. The sum of these factors equals lap.

The following have no influence at all: the rolled up sleeves of Jeremy’s button-down shirt; the open top button baring a long strip of his throat; the way Jeremy absently rests his hand on Misha’s back as if to reassure himself that Misha’s still there.

Jeremy stares at Misha like a deer in the headlights. Misha wonders if people using that metaphor realize how many drivers are killed in deer-vehicle collisions. He should probably stop using car metaphors at all, given his history. 

Automatically, Jeremy puts his hands on Misha’s hips to steady him. Jeremy’s thighs are surprisingly comfortable for all that they have little apparent padding. 

“Um, hi,” Jeremy whispers. His eyes are wild. “What are you doing?”

Misha shrugs. When he signs, he slips a little down Jeremy’s lap; Jeremy tightens his grip on Misha’s hips. _It seemed like a good idea at the time?_

Incredibly, Jeremy snorts, then smothers his laugh. This doesn’t help. Misha grabs him by the shoulders. He feels like a cat who climbed some curtains and is starting to succumb to gravity. 

His hip and knee are catching fire. Despite that, he doesn’t want to climb off Jeremy’s lap. He wants to just--

Okay, feelings _and_ dicks are stupid. Duly noted.

Jeremy drops his forehead to Misha’s shoulder. There’s still a ripple of laughter in his voice as he says, low, “Oh my god, quit squirming, I’m trying not to drop you.”

This is a disaster. They are a disaster. Misha wonders if Jensen has these problems.

The server is pouring coffee like they see this every day. Jeremy lifts his head to thank them, smoothly courteous until they’re gone. Misha is still figuring out how to tell him he doesn’t know how to climb down when Jeremy just moves him without apparent effort back onto the floor. 

Misha blinks at him. He feels like his face is burning hot for everyone to see, but nobody’s staring. Just another dinner. Carry on with the arranged marriage discussions, pay no attention to Misha’s public sexual revelation. 

Jensen meets his eyes from across the table and raises an eyebrow. Misha resists the urge to give him the finger. Jensen’s mouth curves in a secret smile, which Misha echoes involuntarily.

****

“I got a man,” Wendy says. “I don’t need another one.”

Very softly, Jeremy laughs. There’s no humor in it, and not enough surprise. It’s a sound like a man kicked when he’s already down. 

Misha glances at him sidelong, but Jeremy’s expression reveals nothing, and Misha doesn’t want to catch anyone’s attention. When Misha studies the rest of the table to see if they noticed, no one is looking. Wendy is relieved that she argued her way out of marriage. Zach seems hunched and too quiet, but he only has eyes for Wendy. 

Morgan is looking away, but his jaw is tight and his body canted towards Jeremy like he’s braced to catch him.

Beneath the table, Misha taps Jeremy’s knee and fingerspells, _o-k?_

Jeremy shrugs, then nods. He’s enough himself to reassure and then flirt with Morgan, teasing about marriage. (Apparently Jeremy thinks flirting and snark are proof of life.) When Jensen and Misha meet eyes across the table this time, it’s with a shared and rueful affection.

Even though the marriage idea is a joke, Jeff tightens a protective arm around Jensen. Maybe it’s that that gives Jensen the confidence to snap at Kane in defense of Jeff’s care of his friends. “Are you dumb? Or just that big an asshole?”

Kane looks briefly like the fighting dog who got swatted by the sleek lapcat. Despite the spike of tension in the room, Misha has to hide his grin in his coffee cup. 

Morgan pulls Jensen back, soothes him. Misha keeps an unofficial spreadsheet meant to list Morgan’s asshole behavior against the benign, and he’s not sure what column to put preventing a full-on argument in. Maybe Morgan doesn’t think Jensen would win. Then again, he let Jensen get a couple good shots in first.

Whatever the result would be, Kane puts his hackles down. His look in Misha’s direction has that leashed annoyance behind it. Misha gives him a bland expression back. 

He has enough problems tonight. Kane’s distrust doesn’t even make the list.

****

The meeting ends. Some of the Trust lingers in the parking lot, but Jeremy makes excuses about a headache. Even so, it takes a minute to untangle themselves. Ever secures a lunch before she returns to San Francisco. Wendy kisses Jeremy’s cheek, apparently unaware she’d stung him. 

Jeff hugs Jeremy tight before they leave; Misha can see Jeff’s lips moving close to Jeremy’s ear. Jeremy shakes his head, smiling, tight around the eyes.

Misha should touch bases with Jensen, sneak around interesting conversations being easy to overlook. But god, he’s tired, worn gray with pain. He just wants to go home where it’s quiet and curl up in bed with a book.

They drive home. Jeremy talks a lot about small things, not requiring much in the way of conversation. The food, the traffic, the time Jeremy visited Ever and Leah in San Francisco. Jeremy doesn’t talk about Wendy and Zach, or about himself. 

Denis is out. Jeremy eventually runs out of meaningless words and says, “I’m wiped. Want to go to bed? I’m just gonna let Winston out and shower.”

Gratefully, Misha nods. 

It’s not until after the domestic rituals of sleep have been observed that Jeremy speaks.

“I don’t know,” Jeremy says, like they’re continuing a long conversation. He’s staring at the ceiling. “Am I being weird? Does it bother me because I’m crazy?”

His arms are folded behind his head. Misha thinks about running his thumb where Jeremy’s biceps and triceps meet, where the muscle is lean and the skin is soft. He’s not sure where that thought came from. 

Misha sets his book aside and taps Jeremy to get his attention. 

Conversation in sign is frustrating. Needing to tap people for their attention, being unable to communicate, struggling to remember the nuances of conversations when his memory used to be nearly eidetic… frustrating is too small a word for it. But that’s not Jeremy’s fault.

Jeremy rolls on his side, facing Misha so their bodies are mirrored. “Sorry. What?”

 _Does it matter why it bothers you?_ Misha asks. _It bothers you._

“I’m not going to go off the rails again. It’s not like when Marisa left. The meds are working, and…” Jeremy exhales through his teeth. “I’m doing better.”

Misha nods. _If I thought you were going in the desert again, I’d probably slash your tires. I’m out of Ambien._

“Thanks.” Jeremy gives him that crooked smile. “I’m not gonna ask if you’re kidding.”

 _You’re doing better,_ Misha says. _You seem happier, at least compared to when I first met you. I don’t know about before._

He doesn’t say the following:  
\- Wendy said something that’s primed to hurt you, after she’s known you this long, so it was either accidental and careless or purposeful and cruel;  
\- of course it fucking hurt your feelings;  
\- you were already upset about Jeff getting married and loving Jensen;   
\- why was Morgan the only other one who noticed that you flinched;  
\- you deserve better, you epic dumbass.

That probably wouldn’t be helpful. He doesn’t know the line between confidante, bodyslave, therapist and friend. Vincent did not welcome Misha’s sympathy. Jeremy probably wouldn’t welcome it from Denis, who had been his bodyslave before.

“You’re thinking loudly,” Jeremy says. 

Damn, Misha thought his poker face was impenetrable. _If only that worked. I could skip ASL and avoid carpal tunnel._

Jeremy’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to laugh, although Misha can’t figure out why. “That’d be a shame. What were you thinking about?”

Misha is planning to sign a breezy dismissal, but what he says is, _that my knee hurts. That I wanted to hug you since the restaurant, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted to._

Immediately Jeremy shifts closer and puts an arm around Misha, a warm and heavy band across his ribs. His hair is in Misha’s face, the scent of roast coffee like a ghost of their night. Misha presses his forehead to Jeremy’s shoulder, wanting to savor the moment before it ends, but Jeremy doesn’t immediately let him go.

“You can always ask for that,” Jeremy says. 

Misha hides his smile against Jeremy’s shoulder. He thinks he shares both Jensen’s happiness and his wariness about it, like the world might fall down if he feels it too hard.


	31. Chapter 31

What Jeremy doesn’t tell Misha is this: he wishes he felt like after Marisa dumped him.

When Marisa left, it wrecked him. He still hurts over Jeff breaking it off, although he can see why and that whole situation was a clusterfuck anyway. So the fact that Wendy blew him off should break his heart.

Wendy and Z have been there for him for years. He’s crashed on their couch when he was drunk or depressed or drunk _and_ depressed, which isn’t a good look on anybody. He’s had nightmares in their bed. He loves them, and they love him. 

He just isn’t their first choice. He’s not anybody’s husband. He’s not sure he approaches boyfriend territory. 

He knew that was the deal. He knows he’s a goddamn mess who shouldn’t be around kids, at least when they talk and don’t look like little footballs. The fact that he compares babies to footballs is probably a good clue. He curses and he disappears and he destroys offices. Deep down he’s kind of a bad person.

Maybe they can fix this. Wendy probably didn’t mean it. Zach hasn’t even weighed in. (Zach will follow Wendy.) Nothing’s broken. He can get back into their bed and forget, if he tries, that Wendy doesn’t need another man.

None of that would’ve stopped him from pining and being a douchebag before. He doesn’t want to call and fight about it, or say something he can’t ever take back. He doesn’t want to disappear on everybody. He doesn’t even want to stop taking his fucking meds. 

Jeremy scrubs his hands over his face. When he looks up, Denis is scowling in the doorway. 

“Are you done being a broody fuck yet?” Denis asks. “Hockey’s on.”

“In five minutes. You can get some prime brooding done in five minutes.”

Denis rolls his eyes, then calls over his shoulder into kitchen. “He says he’s not done yet. Fucking drama queens, Jesus Christ. If I wanted this I’d move in with Kane.”

Outraged, Jeremy says, “Oh, come on, it’s been like three hours. We don’t even have to replace a desk!”

“When _I_ have feelings I jerk off, eat a brownie and get over it. Because I’m a red blooded heterosexual man.”

“Except for your bromance with Kane.” Jeremy drops his head back onto the couch arm. “And I don’t want to hear what you do to brownies.”

Five minutes later he yields the couch, partly because he promised but mostly because Denis threatens to sit on him. He also got therapy, and he’s pretty sure he actually needs it. He tries to put the Wendy situation in a box in his mind so he can lock it.

Because hockey is terrible, Jeremy goes into the kitchen.

Misha glances up from texting and smiles wanly. He looks like hell, but dressed to the nines as usual. One of his hands is at his throat, worrying at his old collar. The one that Vincent gave him, and the one he wore last night. The one he wears when he’s stressed out.

Misha drops his hand from the collar, guiltily, like Jeremy walked in on him jerking off. 

Jeremy sits across from him at the kitchen table, snitching Denis’s abandoned coffee mug. “You feeling okay? You look beat.”

Misha’s signs take up less space than usual, like moving hurts. _Just tired. How are you?_

Sometimes Jeremy forgets that Vincent left scars on Misha, because the damage is so different from Denis’s and Marisa’s. From Jensen’s. Hell, from Jeremy himself. 

Misha is mostly okay, but he could be bleeding to death and still try to say he’s all right. It’s probably why he refuses to admit his knee is killing him, why he resists going back to Traci. Jeremy gets that; he tries like hell to dodge Cate. But sometimes he thinks Misha wasn’t allowed to be anything but fine for so long that it stuck. 

Misha’s provenance listed no injuries in the years Vincent owned him, going back to when he was 16 until the car accident. At first Jeremy figured that Misha was just a healthy dude. He’s up on his vaccinations, flu shots administered by Vincent’s doctors. But Jeremy wonders now if under the nice suits and ridiculous pajamas Misha has scars of injuries that should’ve been treated.

No abuse, maybe, but neglect? Jeremy wonders, but he’s not sure how to ask. _Hey, did the dead guy you’re still grieving ever take you to the dentist?_

Add that to the fact that Misha acts like seeking comfort is something shameful. That Misha’s never really asked for anything for himself while he’s been in Jeremy’s household. Misha’s still wearing the suits he came with, although they’re not exactly comfortable enough for bad pain days. He didn’t ask for the cell phone he uses to text (a little understandable since he’s mute). He didn’t ask for a toothbrush, or underwear, or to go to Traci the first time to see how his knee’s busted.

He asked Jeremy to touch him, right after Jeremy switched pills. He asked for to know about the Trust. He asked for a hug last night. But those can’t be the only things he wants. That isn’t enough.

Jeremy’s mouth kicks in before his brain. “Mish, did you want a new collar?”

Misha leans back in his chair, his eyes watchful.

“I mean, you don’t have to!” Fuck, Jeremy realizes, he’s still talking. Backpedaling now. “I’m not gonna make you. I know it’s Vincent’s… I know you’re grieving and it’s really soon and you don’t talk about it. But you could have both, if you wanted. I’m--”

‘Sorry’ is still on his lips when Misha signs, _you would do that?_

There’s hope in Misha’s eyes, blue as a pilot light. 

Jeremy feels like he got kicked in the chest. “Yeah. Of course. I didn’t think you wanted…” he trails off. “Do you want to pick? I don’t really know where to get one. Fuck it, I’ll figure that out.”

The corner of Misha’s mouth quirks. _I don’t have a preference. I don’t suppose there’s one laying around._

Probably. Denis brought one from Walken’s service. Marisa asked to change hers out several times, because they all seemed too much like what she wore at the labs. Hell, Jeremy has a leather one fitted to him because he’s a kinky bastard. But his hindbrain throws the brakes on. Misha _wants_ a collar, and so Jeremy wants to get him one. He wants to give him something shiny and new. He takes a deep breath and says, “Let me do this for you.”

Misha tilts his head and studies Jeremy, like he might see Jeremy’s thoughts written across his face. Then, slowly, he nods. 

“Okay,” Jeremy says, and smiles. “Thanks.”

****

Jeremy calls Jeff from the car.

Jeff picks up on the second ring. He sounds wary. “Hey. Everything all right?”

Jeremy tells him, “Help me, Obi Wan, you’re my only hope.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Jeff says to someone on his end of the line, “I’ve got to take this. Be right back.”

Rustling noises. A door closing. Jeremy rests his head on the steering wheel and waits. 

When Jeff comes back on, he says, “All right, Leia, is anything on fire?”

“No, sorry. It’s not an emergency. I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Dude, you gave me an excuse to escape from my mother,” Jeff says. “Don’t be sorry. Plus you opened with a Star Wars quote. I figured nobody was in the hospital.”

“I mocked you about Jensen. I mocked you so hard, you don’t even know. Because that shit was hilarious.”

“I’m aware,” Jeff drawls. 

“I’m just telling you so you feel free to laugh at this: karma is kicking my ass. I have Misha problems.”

Jeff snorts. “That’s hard to miss.”

“Thanks. Fuck you. Did you get Jensen a collar?”

After all these years, Jeff follows Jeremy’s graceless conversational segues. “Yeah. He only wears it when he’s traveling. I bought one for him… well, early, but not the day he came home. Why?”

That makes Jeremy feel a little less like a failure. He didn’t violate some etiquette that everybody else understands. When he’s rude, he tries to do it on purpose. “Misha wants one. From me. I mean, he’s been wearing Vincent’s, and I didn’t ask if he wanted one until this morning--”

“Jer--”

“--and he looked at me like I’d offered him a kidney. He doesn’t ask for anything. I think he thinks I don’t value him, and I really do, and I fucked up. How do you deal with this?”

“ _Jer._ ” It’s been years, but that tone in Jeff’s voice still makes Jeremy listen. Honestly, it still makes the bottom of his stomach drop out and his dick hard, but he’s taking that secret to the grave. “Take a deep breath. It’s okay. I didn’t go to Jensen’s Closing, remember? I’m pretty sure I fucked up a million times. But he’s okay, and we’re okay, and everything’s okay. You can still pull out.”

Despite everything, Jeremy smiles. “But is it okay? I’m not getting that part of it.”

“I’m surprised you passed up a ‘that’s what she said’ joke. Anyway. Misha’s pretty tough, from what I’ve heard.”

Not as tough as he seems. Jeremy’s smile turns rueful. “Where’d you get Jensen’s? I got my last collars out of Escrow’s vending machines.”

“I e-mailed you the link already.”

“You are awesome. You are a goddamn lifesaver in a sea of bullshit. I--” _love you_ is a stupid thing to say to Jeff, even if he’d say it to his other friends. Lamely, Jeremy finishes, “I’m really grateful. Now go or your mom is probably going to kick the office door in.”

“I’ll give her your regards,” Jeff says. “Good luck.”

After they hang up, Jeremy meets his own eyes in the rearview mirror. He tells himself, “Smooth, Sisto. Real fucking smooth.”

****

Jeremy goes to therapy. He doesn’t try to drive to Vegas instead. He isn’t even late.

“Let me see if I understand you,” Cate says, after less than twenty minutes.

“You ever notice that when you say that, I’m generally screwed?” he asks.

“You’re more upset about what’s happening with Wendy than you think you should be, but less upset than you think you should be. Is that the shape of things?”

“Nnnooo,” Jeremy says, dragging the word out because she has him there. “Maybe?”

He likes the way she treats him, like it’s a chess game or a logic puzzle. Like it’s her job to make him see where he’s tripping himself. It’s why she stuck as his therapist, why seeing her doesn’t set off the same alarms in his head as most shrinks. It also helps that she’s his friend, as much as that’s an ethical clusterfuck. He can’t exactly look for an abolitionist therapist in the phonebook. 

Cate asks, “Is there an amount of emotion you’d allow yourself?” 

“I kind of miss the days you’d write a script over dinner and skip the therapy.”

“I was afraid that you’d stop taking the pills at all.” Cate smiles, just one corner of her mouth. “I was afraid for you a lot, actually. I’m glad you decided to come back.”

Jeremy looks away. Then, because Misha has trained him into it, he returns his attention to her face. “I try not to feel things. In general.” _After Jeff._

“Sorry, love. I don’t think you can opt out.”

“Well, that sucks.”

“Agreed. Then again, I’d be out of a job.”

Cate really doesn’t need a job, but he doesn’t bring that up. Mock-horrified, he says, “But who’d pay for all your mountains of tea?”

“True.” Tapping her upper lip, she muses, “I suppose I’d have to break into coffee shops at night.”

“Turned to a life of beverage crime. That’s harsh. Hey, Gina left her stash behind, so it’s in my trunk if you want it.”

“I would, thank you. Maybe save half for Jensen. Hm.” Cate considers him. “Your amount of heartbreak isn’t a reflection on how much you love someone, Jeremy. You’ve had a number of very intense relationships, but it doesn’t mean that’s the only kind of relationship you’ll ever have.”

Jeremy shrugs uncomfortably.

Cate says, “What about Misha?”

Jeremy tenses, realizes he’s tensing, and tries to pull his shoulders down from around his ears. “What about him?”

“Are your feelings about Misha complicated?”

Jeremy opens his hands, a nonverbal _I don’t know_. “He’s a complicated guy.”

“You seem to have let him past your guard very quickly.”

“I don’t have a guard,” he says, guardedly. He bites his lip. “Is this about last night? Because he’s not going to narc.”

“No. You trusted him enough to bring him to a meeting.” _Unlike Marisa,_ she doesn’t say. “You’re very careful with other people’s lives. It bothers you that people are wary of him.”

“There’s a lot to lose. Kane’s paranoid. Vincent was probably in on skeezy business. But… y’know, I worry about Misha. Not everybody knows sign. He was alone with Vincent for a long time, and now he’s only got Denis to hang out with. A house full of books. ”

“And you,” Cate says.

“Yeah, and me. And he’s texting Jensen a lot.” Jeremy grins. “He sends Jensen cat macros. You know, _can haz cheezeburgers?_ I’m looking forward to the day he figures out rickrolls.”

“That sounds like he has a much wider social circle than he’s used to. You can’t break a lifetime of habits in a month.”

“I get that.” Jeremy slouches back in the chair. “I just want him to be happy.”

Cate laughs, a sudden bell of sound. “You sound like Jeff when Jensen arrived. Jeff thought he knew what would make Jensen happy.”

“I’m much less pathetic about it, though. And when Jensen showed up, he was half-starved but all,” Jeremy adds fingerquotes, “‘happy to serve you, Sir.’ People screwed Jensen up. Then they told him for years he was happy about it. He didn’t know what would make him happy.”

“Serving Jeff does make Jensen happy,” Cate says.

“Yeah, and it made Jeff fucking miserable to let him!” Jeremy hears the edge in his voice. Sighs. “Sorry.”

Gently, Cate says, “Jeff tortured himself. He wanted Jensen, but he felt guilty about it, and he couldn’t get out of his own way. Both of them deserve to get what they need. They had to talk about it. Ultimately it turns out that both of them can be happy.”

Jeremy thinks, _and it hurts to watch._ Out loud, he says, “I get what you’re trying to say. It’s a different situation. Misha’s not Jensen. I’m not--”

But he’s not going to lie right to Cate’s face. He’s actually trying to be less crazy this time around. She deserves the truth.

“Misha is attractive,” he hedges. “Obviously. He’s got nice hands. He’s got nice everything. And that’s in the suit. When he rolls his sleeves up, it’s like Amish porn. Dude’s got formal pajamas, which is _really_ unfair.”

Cate’s eyebrows lift with every adjective.

“The point is, I’m not blind,” Jeremy finishes too late. “I’m kind of a manwhore. But I don’t know if he’s into sex at all. He doesn’t even jerk off, unless he’s really ninja about it. He kissed Jensen once, but honestly Jensen could debauch a nun. Misha doesn’t need to know that I think he’s hot.”

“From attractive to hot in less than a minute? Interesting.” 

“Let me get out of the last relationship disaster before we talk about Misha.” After a second, he adds, “Actually, how about we never talk about Misha?”

“Socially, that might be awkward. In session? I’ll agree to that for now.” Cate puts her teacup down, which means that it’s therapist closing time. “With one last suggestion.”

“Always with the one last suggestion,” Jeremy says. “Okay, hit me, Columbo.”

“Don’t recreate Jeff’s mistakes. Try asking Misha what would make him happy.”

****

Jeremy manages to get home before sunset, but it’s a near thing. The last month of relative domesticity has spoiled him. After an afternoon of therapy and haggling with the jeweler Jeff recommended, he’s tired and he wants nothing more complicated than takeout on the couch. 

The inside of the house is dark. Denis is probably out, then. Winston greets him at the door, or maybe just greets dinner. Jeremy sets the food down in the kitchen. From there, he can see the underwater flicker of TV in the living room. 

On the couch, Misha is burrowed under a knit blanket with only his face and the spikes of his hair showing. Nominally, Misha is watching another disc of the Attenborough ocean documentary. Actually, he’s sleeping. His shoes are still on. 

Jeremy stops in the doorway, taken aback by sudden tenderness. If Misha’s napping, he’s not in pain for a while. Let him sleep. 

Before Jeremy can back out of the room, Misha opens his eyes and sits up. The blanket slides down. His tie is slackened, the fine lines of his suit all rumpled and his hair in hedgehog spikes. He isn’t wearing Vincent’s collar. Misha yawns hugely and signs, _you’re late._

“Sorry. I brought dinner. You can go back to sleep.”

Misha frowns at the blanket. _I wasn’t wearing this._

“Abducted by couch aliens,” Jeremy says. “Happens to me all the time.”

 _Sofa encounters of the third kind. The dreaded nap._ Misha shifts his legs to the floor, wincing, and pats the seat next to him. _How was therapy?_

Jeremy never knows what to say to that. It happened? He wasn’t committed? He joins Misha on the couch. “Still crazy. How was Attenborough?”

 _Still British. Strangely hypnotic._ Misha notices that Jeremy has a box in his hands. His eyes flick to Jeremy’s face.

Thank fuck for the blue cast of the screen, because Jeremy’s face feels hot. “I, um. Got the collar.”

 _You didn’t have to do it today,_ Misha signs. It’s hard to read his expression.

Jeremy tells him the awkward truth. “Yeah, I know. I wanted to.”

Misha smiles, suddenly brilliant. There’s nothing shy about his pleasure. _I appreciate it._

Jeremy blinks, poleaxed, and offers the box in self-defense. “Don’t appreciate yet. It could still be hideous.”

Misha rolls his eyes. He lets Jeremy keep holding the box, and instead runs his fingers across the top. It’s slightly pornographic. His smile shows his teeth. _Maybe I should carry the box around unopened for a few hours. It’s a very nice box._

“Are you going to sniff it next?” Jeremy asks. “Chew on the leather? You’re killing me here.”

Misha scoffs, but he opens the catch. He takes in a breath, slow, and touches the collar. His mouth is soft. Up close, he smells like Tiger Balm and sleep. He looks incandescent.

Jeremy manages to keep his mouth shut for what feels like forever but is probably one or two seconds. “If you don’t like it--”

Protective, Misha pulls the box to his chest. His eyes are feral bright. _Mine._

“Okay.” Jeremy relaxes. “It’s yours.”

 _I love it,_ Misha signs emphatically, and pulls off his tie. _It’s beautiful._

“That’s great,” Jeremy tells him, faintly. “Why are you taking your clothes off?” 

Misha gives him a look like that’s a strange question, then puts the collar on. He doesn’t wear it like it’s shackles from a broken system, even though Misha’s stuck in it. He puts it on like it’s jewelry, or an accessory, or a crown. Like it’s a gift because it’s something Jeremy gave him.

Misha doesn’t have his hands free to sign. He tilts his head in silent expectation. The collar lays flat against the hollow of his throat. 

“It looks great,” Jeremy says. “Silver is your color.”

Misha preens a little. Jeremy chokes on a laugh. 

Later, as they’re splitting peanut chicken, Misha asks Jeremy, _you keep staring at me. What are you thinking about?_

Jeremy almost asks him, then. _How do I make you happy? How can I get you to look like this forever? How did I get this far in over my head?_

Instead, he says, “I’m thinking about karma.”


	32. Chapter 32

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Jeremy says. 

He’s been dreading this, but for a moment nothing happens. The quiet domestic moment in Zach and Wendy’s kitchen, paused. Wendy looks like Jeremy slapped her. Zach doesn’t have any expression at all.

Jeremy tried like hell: he made sure Ryzer was with Jared for the day; he didn’t accept food or coffee; he went to their place so he could get out fast. If there’s a handbook for dodging ugly break-up scenes, Jeremy’s following it. But he hates this. 

“Wow,” Wendy says, and puts her mug down. “Okay? I can’t say I expected this.” 

“I still love you guys. I still want to be friends.” Fuck, right into insulting cliches. “I can’t keep sleeping with you.”

“Why not?” Wendy asks. If she was angry, it’d be easier. She’s hurt. “Is something wrong?”

Yeah, Jeremy’s turning down easy sex; must be something wrong. Call the newspapers. 

Jeremy rubs his forehead. “No. I just-- I’m not your husband, Wen. I’m not your boyfriend. We’re trying not to be suspicious.”

Wendy blinks at him. “Holy fuck, is this about what I said at dinner? About not needing another dude? It was a joke, honey, it was just something to say-- have you been stewing about this for three days?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy says. “Because it’s true. You don’t.”

“You’re coming over here to break up after one stupid comment--”

“We’re not breaking up,” Jeremy says. He hates the shake in his voice. “We’re friends, okay? We were friends that fucked and now we aren’t fucking. I’m opting out. That doesn’t change anything.”

Zach says, dangerously quiet, “Do I get some say in this? Or you two gonna decide over my head?”

“Zach,” Wendy soothes, reaching for his arm. Zach twitches away.

“Because I didn’t say shit, Jer. You didn’t ask. You figure Wendy’s voting for both of us? After all this time?” Zach stands up. His chair skids back a little. “Fine. Get out. Or does she gotta tell you that too?”

“Z,” Jeremy starts. 

Shaking his head, Zach leaves the kitchen. A minute later, a door slams. 

Jeremy and Wendy look at each other. The quiet feels like a shout.

“I’m sorry.” Angrily, she grinds tears off her cheek. “It was a stupid thing for me to say. I love you. Does that help anything?”

“I’m not doing this to hurt you,” Jeremy says. “Either of you. I just...”

“Yeah, well. Me either.” After a minute, Wendy pats his arm. “We’re okay. And you know Zach. He’ll get over it.”

“Or he won’t.”

“Or he won’t,” Wendy acknowledges. “But you better go anyway.”

****

When Jeremy gets home, Misha reads him like a book. Misha points at the kitchen table and levers himself up. _Making tea now._

“I can do that,” Jeremy protests. Misha points at the table more emphatically. Reluctantly, Jeremy sits. He doesn’t even like tea, but he waits in silence for Misha to make some. 

The silence is unexpectedly comfortable. Maybe because Jeremy doesn’t know what to say.

Eventually, Misha limps back to the table with a teakettle and two cups tucked in the crook of his arm. He sets the between them on a potholder Jeremy didn’t know he owned, pours two cups. The tea is scorching hot and looks strong enough to eat through a spoon.

 _Tea is customary,_ Misha signs. _Tell me everything._

Jeremy planned to soften the edges of the argument, to say that he knows Zach will come around and that it’s no big deal. But Jeremy looks at Misha’s sympathetic face, and he cracks.

After two cups of tea, and the kettle has gone cold, Jeremy’s spilled everything. Misha doesn’t try to comfort him, just lets him be conflicted and hurt and resentful. Occasionally Misha asks a question, but mostly he nods and listens with his whole body. Jeremy thinks he might get that cliche about confession being good for the soul now.

“So,” Jeremy says, and finishes off the lukewarm tea. It’s bitter and it tastes like grass, but it helps. 

_I could’ve come with you,_ Misha says.

“I know.” Jeremy sighs. He forgets sometimes that Misha is new to this stuff. He’s never been in a relationship, never broken up. He’s the smartest person Jeremy knows and there are still huge gaps in his knowledge where social stuff should be. “It was awkward enough as it is. I swear, the next horrible thing I have to do, you can ride along.”

 _Horrible but necessary. You’re a free man, Jeremy,_ Misha signs. _You decide who you fuck._

“Not always,” Jeremy says. The bitterness in his voice makes him wince. “I’m lucky. My dad was poor as fuck, and me and Meadow could’ve ended up in Escrow pretty easy. I barely scraped by when I was in college. Jeff paid for my treatment. Vincent gave me a scholarship, did you know that? They saved my life. I know it’s not the same, what slaves go through and what one asshole did to me, but. Free people still get raped.”

Misha doesn’t react to the word with shock or horror. He nods. Jeremy realizes that he already knew. 

Well. Misha’s pretty perceptive, and Jeremy has nightmares. Hopefully he’s not that transparent to everyone. Maybe he should be appalled by someone knowing after all this time, but Misha keeps secrets.

 _You should be the one to decide,_ Misha signs. _In this case, you are. You don’t owe anyone your body. Isn’t that what you told me?_

“It’s not just about fucking. I need--” Jeremy gestures vaguely around his head. “I need to figure my shit out. I can’t assume I’ll be dead by forty anymore, and so nothing matters. I’ve got people.” 

_Forty?_ Misha asks. 

“Well. Yeah.” Jeremy shrugs. “It was thirty when I was in my twenties. Twenties when I was a teenager. One in three people with bipolar disorder kill themselves.”

Misha’s eyebrows go up. _Who told you that?_

“Um.” Awkward, Jeremy says, “My mom. We’ve got a weird relationship.”

Misha chuffs an almost-laugh. _One day I should tell you how my mother died. Anyway. When I started in your service, I researched. It’s one in three if you’re untreated._

Jeremy sits back in his chair, the world reshuffling itself like a deck of cards. “Oh.”

Misha’s face gentles. _Lies, damned lies, and statistics?_

“Stats aren’t really my deal.”

Misha hums noncommittally. _Can I ask you to come with me on my unpleasant business? I need to go to Traci’s. She wants to see me tomorrow._

“Of course.” Jeremy remembers Cate: ask Misha what he wants. It doesn’t feel like the right time to do it. Instead, he says, “I’ll go with you anywhere you want.”

****

Zach calls that night. 

“I’m still pissed,” Zach says. His voice is scratchy from yelling or crying. Or, knowing Zach, yelling and crying. He also sounds like he’s been drinking.

“I figured.” Jeremy sits on the edge of Misha’s bed. He’s pretending he can’t hear Denis and Misha eavesdropping. “Dude, I didn’t ask you because Wendy’s your wife. Not because you’re a slave. Okay?”

“Yeah, well. Whatever. You’re not going on disappear on me. That wasn’t a fucking question, it was me telling you. I will stalk your ass.”

“I’m not gonna disappear on you,” Jeremy says. “We’re still friends.”

Zach snorts. “You need to stop making friends with your ex, asshole.”

“That’s technically making an ex of my friend. Friends. Sorry, should I come over and set your car on fire?”

“That’s Jeff’s car. We rent. So torch it, we’ll put it on youtube.”

Jeremy laughs. It’s not really funny, but relief helps. “I’ll be over tomorrow with a lighter, if you want.” 

“It’s a platonic date, I guess, you fucking jerk. My ass is prime ass. You’re missing out.”

“I’m pretty much sworn off anybody’s ass for a while.”

“Yeah, good luck,” Zach says. “You’re a slut, dude, you’ll last five days.”

“Thanks,” Jeremy says. “I’m platonically hanging up on you.”

“Go fuck yourself platonically, buddy,” Zach says, and hangs up first.


	33. Chapter 33

Misha returns to the waiting room looking like a cat with its fur rubbed the wrong way. He has a fistful of prescriptions and a sour expression.

They came after Traci’s business hours and the waiting room is empty. Jeremy is free to ask, and he does. “That good?”

Misha transfer the baleful look to Jeremy. Then he limps over, shoves the prescriptions in Jeremy’s shirt pocket, and catches him by the jacket. Jeremy lets himself be towed out the door and to the parking garage.

Once they’re in the car, Misha starts fastidiously straightening his own clothes. _That was unpleasant,_ he signs.

Sometimes Jeremy is jealous of the fact that he has to look Misha in the face to read sign, but Misha can avoid looking at Jeremy as much as he wants.

“Sorry,” Jeremy says. Despite knowing Traci and her good heart, he feels compelled to add, “She didn’t hurt you, did she?”

Misha waves a hand, dismissive. There’s lines of pain engraved on his face. _Not her fault. Comes with the territory._

“Sorry,” Jeremy says again. “We’ll stop for your meds and go home.”

 _After food,_ Misha says. _Getting lectured at is exhausting, and I’m starved. Also I’m supposed to smoke weed._

Jeremy doesn’t swerve the car, but it’s only because he’s used to passengers saying terrible bullshit while he’s driving. “Oh yeah?”

Misha nods, turning towards Jeremy to clarify with fingerspelling, _Marijuana. Reefer._

“I know what it _is_ , dude. And I’m just wondering, did Vincent make you watch 50s documentaries about the devil’s weed? Loose women and communists? STDs in the navy?”

 _Only the once._ Before Jeremy can follow up on that information, Misha continues. _And I know you know, you’re a stoner. All your friends are stoners. You might try not to smoke around me but you left weed in your bedside table._

Jeremy has a horrible moment where he remembers what he keeps in his bedside tables. Did he have sex toys in the table on Misha’s side? “Not all my friends are stoners. Just most of them. I didn’t know if it’d bother you.”

Misha rolls his eyes. He’s getting really good at it.

“We can smoke some when we get home, if you want.” Jeremy feels weirdly self-conscious about the quality of weed he has on hand. He’s pretty sure Misha wouldn’t want to stop off at Jeff’s for better stuff. That’d be a hilarious and horrifying series of mishaps right there. Jeff plus Jeff’s mom (who probably still calls Jeremy ‘that boy’ if she remembers him at all) plus Misha in this pissy mood. “I’ll show you how.”

 _Of course,_ Misha signs. _I wouldn’t let anybody else._

****

“You can’t wear a suit,” Jeremy says. “For one thing, it’s uncomfortable. For another, it’s gonna take forever to get the smoke out. And that’s if you don’t burn a hole in it.”

 _Pajamas?_ Misha asks. He’s sitting on the edge of their bed. The earnestness on his face is killing Jeremy. 

If Misha burns a hole in the ridiculous pajamas, Jeremy doesn’t even know where he’d find replacements. That’d be a sneaky way to get around them, but Misha seems attached.

“You can borrow mine,” Jeremy says, and tosses Misha some sweats. Soft clothes, worn out from years of use. If a little part of Jeremy likes that they’re _his_ clothes, nobody has to know. “Easier to replace.”

Misha nods, accepting that. Then he shrugs out of his jacket, and starts to unbutton his shirt. 

Once Jeremy manages to unfreeze his brain from its blue screen of death, he realizes Misha is just going to strip in front of him.

“Okay yeah,” Jeremy says, and flees.

Somewhere Jeff is probably laughing his ass off. 

**** 

The t-shirt and sweats are treacherously thin. Jeremy can see the frame of Misha’s body through them: long thighs, narrow hips, bare forearms. Nice ass. Jesus, Jeremy can see the line of Misha’s dick. He shouldn’t be looking at this, but he can’t tear his eyes away. After weeks of suits, it’s like seeing him naked. Jeremy might as well have watched him strip.

 _What?_ Misha signs, looking self-conscious. 

Jeremy shakes himself. “Nothing. I rolled you some joints to start.”

Goddamn sexy sweatpants.

****

Jeremy’s refereed first trips before: his sister dropped acid, his dad did ecstasy, a few of his dad’s people who should’ve known better than to have a teenager supervise. It was sometimes terrifying, sometimes emotional, but mostly boring and/or irritating. Misha is the first person who’s been adorable.

Misha frowns at the joint in his hand. _How do you know if it’s working?_

Given that Misha’s gone from sitting upright to slumping against Jeremy’s side in the course of an hour, Jeremy is pretty sure it’s working. He drapes his arm around Misha’s shoulders because the other choice is probably amputation. “Does your leg hurt?”

Misha nods. _Always. But I don’t really care about it._

“Well, there you go.” 

Misha takes that in solemnly, like holy writ, and says, _My mouth is dry._

Jeremy hands him the bottle of water, and Misha drinks greedily. Once it’s finished, Misha hands Jeremy the empty water bottle back.

“Thanks,” Jeremy says, wry. “You want more?” 

Shaking his head no, Misha signs, _comfortable._

It’s not really clear if he means that he’s gotten comfortable or that Jeremy’s good furniture. It doesn’t really matter, because either one means Jeremy’s not moving. Misha needs more comfortable in his life. 

_Traci wants to do the surgery,_ Misha says. _But it’s not going to fix me._

Yeah. Jeremy figured it was something like that. Traci had said as much at the first appointment, but hope is a bastard. He squeezes Misha tight to his side. “I know. I’m sorry.”

 _I used to run, did you know that?_ Before Jeremy can say anything, Misha continues, _I ran from Vincent two days after he bought me. The only time he ever hit me._

Jesus. “That wasn’t on your provenance.”

_I wasn’t caught by the police. I didn’t make it off the property. Lucky._

“It’s fucked up when that counts as lucky.”

 _I had nowhere to go. Most masters wouldn’t be generous and hide it._ Misha shrugs like he’s shaking off the topic. _Would you want to be cured, if you could?_

“I don’t know. I’ve thought about it. I’ve been crazy for a long time. Most of my life. I don’t know what I’d be if I wasn’t.” Maybe together with Jeff. Maybe happy. Maybe somebody entirely different than himself. “But crazy is different than hurting all the time.”

 _I’d take my words back first._ Misha doesn’t say anything for a minute. _Do you want her to fix me?_

“No,” Jeremy says immediately. “Are you fucking kidding me? No. It’s not my call anyway.”

_Vincent would want her to._

“I’m not Vincent. You love the guy, and I liked him a lot, but he could be kind of a dick.”

For a minute, Jeremy thinks Misha might be angry. Then Misha laughs. _He could be. And he’d be exasperated if nobody would say so just because he’s dead._

“Hopefully he’s too busy haunting Waterston to haunt us.”

 _Hopefully he’s with his wife._

“That too.” 

They fall into a comfortable quiet so deep that Jeremy can hear the joint crackle as Misha smokes. They watch Mythbusters.

Suddenly, sharply, Misha cranes his head to look Jeremy’s in the eyes. Their faces are too close. His pupils are black and wide. Misha signs something, and Jeremy says quickly, “Wait, let me lean back so I can see your hands.”

Once Jeremy’s leaned back, the arm of the sofa digging into his spine, Misha signs, _I said, Jensen doesn’t smoke weed._

Misha uses a name sign for Jensen: a J circling around his face like the word ‘pretty.’ Jeremy can assume by context that it’s Jensen, It’s just one part of the confusing whole. “I’m not really surprised.”

 _Sometimes he shotguns Jeff, though,_ Misha signs. _They like it. We should try that._

The room goes still all at once. “You’re really high right now, Mish,” Jeremy says slowly.

 _And I’m a slave. And you’re crazy. And I’m crippled._ Misha studies him. _Do these things cancel each other out? I know what I want._

Jeremy looks at Misha, soft-edged and rumpled in Jeremy’s clothes, and feels his heart turn over. “And this is what you want?”

Misha nods, his gaze on Jeremy like a physical weight. 

Before he can be a coward, Jeremy plucks the joint out of Misha’s hand. He takes a deep drag, like a shot to the brain, and kisses Misha. 

It’s not a graceful kiss. Jeremy’s had more skillful kisses, more frantic biting ones, and more gentle ones. But it’s one of the best kisses in his life.

Misha makes a little noise in his throat. Automatically Jeremy starts to pull back, but Misha puts a hand on the back of his neck and holds him there for another long moment. Then he lets Jeremy go, although he leaves his hand where it is.

Jeremy watches him, the thoughtful curve of Misha’s mouth. “Well,” he says, trying not to sound like he’s out of breath. “Do you approve, your highness?”

Misha hums smugly, and Jeremy laughs.

“Good. I’m glad.” And he is, even if they never talk about this again. Even if he’s just a stepladder to Misha kissing someone for real. Even if kissing Jeremy is like kissing Jensen to Misha, something friends do. Jeremy said they were friends. They _are_ friends.

Jeremy’s lips burn where Misha kissed him.

 _And you? Are you all right?_ Misha asks. 

“I’m happy,” Jeremy says.

 _Good,_ Misha echoes. _I’m glad._

Misha squirms, eeling down so that his head is resting on Jeremy’s lap. That isn’t where Jeremy would have put him right then, because fuck, but Misha doesn’t seem to notice. Carefully, Jeremy starts to stroke Misha’s hair. Misha sighs heavily and butts into Jeremy’s hand, seeking pets.

Jeremy tells himself that this can be enough.


	34. Chapter 34

The marijuana doesn’t keep Misha’s pain at bay all night. He can live with that. In Jeremy’s borrowed clothes, Misha is wrapped in Jeremy’s scent and the not unpleasant ghost of pot. His bones feel like they’re humming. 

In the dark, Misha touches his mouth where the kiss still burns.

****

In the morning, Jeremy is quiet. The space shivers between them; Misha isn’t sure he trusts that feeling enough to put weight on it. 

After the third time Jeremy spaces out with his coffee mug halfway to his mouth, Misha asks him, _Is something wrong?_

“What?” Jarred awake, Jeremy puts his mug down. “I’m fine. I’m just thinking.”

Misha tilts his head, waiting for Jeremy to enlighten him. When he doesn’t, Misha prods. _About what?_

“The Seyfried account. I think I can get her another tax break on travel.”

 _The unparalleled joy,_ Misha teases. _Do you want the ledgers?_

“Sit,” Jeremy tells him sternly. “I’ll get it in a minute. It’s not like I’ll forget.”

With a shrug, Misha turns back to his phone. It’s late enough that he could text Jensen about last night, but he doesn’t know if he wants anyone else to know yet. He types a message, _I kissed him._ Then he saves it to drafts. As an excuse, he tells himself that Jensen is still sleeping. In truth, he wants to keep the memory close for now.

“Mish,” Jeremy says abruptly, “what do you want?”

Caught off guard with his phone in his hand, Misha stares at him. He puts the phone down. _I have Cheerios. Cheerios are fine._

“No, I mean…” Jeremy’s eyes are intense on Misha’s, like he’s been thinking about this for a while. So this is what he’s been chewing on all morning. “In general. Like the collar. Or like stuff you want to do with your life. What would make you happy?”

Even before he became a slave, Misha didn’t think about what he wanted from life. He knew his family lived too close to the edge. Too dangerous to think past tomorrow. He has twin urges to shake Jeremy by his shoulders and to kiss him on his thoughtless idealist face.

Then he wants to kiss Jeremy on his lush mouth. The kissing was nice.

 _Jeremy,_ Misha signs, settling for an acceptable excuse. _I haven’t finished my coffee._

Sheepish, Jeremy ducks his head. “I know. Sorry. I’m dropping this on you. But I don’t want to herd you places you don’t want to go.”

_What if I ask for something you can’t give me? Or something you don’t want to give me?_

“Ask me anyway,” Jeremy says. “We’ll figure it out. Just think about it, okay?”

It’d be very easy to hit below the belt with his two requests: emancipation and a cure for his aphasia. But Misha can’t make himself do it. He sighs. _Do you see why this is difficult for me?_

“Yeah.” Hesitantly, Jeremy reaches across the table and touches the back of Misha’s hand. “All I’m asking is for you to think about it.”

Half-afraid to spook Jeremy, Misha turns his hand over and catches Jeremy’s fingers in his own. Jeremy has nice hands, long-fingered and deft, still smudged faintly with graphite from yesterday’s work. Misha wants to lift Jeremy’s hand to his mouth and kiss the back like a courtier; he wants to kiss the tips of Jeremy’s fingers; he wants to put Jeremy’s fingers in his mouth and taste him.

But Jeremy is already fidgeting to be let free. So Misha does. 

_I’ll think about it,_ Misha concedes. _I may not come up with answers._

Jeremy smiles. “We’ve got the time.”

***

In the afternoon, as Jeremy’s absorbed in his work, Misha retires to the couch. Misha’s starting to have a symbiotic relationship with the couch. He hopes that his pain is just an effect of passing rain; he fears that it’s the new normal, and what good will he be to anyone then?

Documentaries are soporific to his nerves. Perhaps Marx should have said that Attenborough was an opiate to the masses. Misha has already finished Blue Planet but it soothes him best, so he puts in on and burrows into the knitted blanket that’s like his second skin. 

He should think about wanting, and about safe answers vs. honest ones. But when he tries, his mind scatters. He feels like a domesticated sheep out of its pen, panicking under a too-big sky. 

Did Jensen deal with this? Misha isn’t sure their friendship covers that kind of raw question. Jeremy and he operate on overshare, but Jensen might balk. Then again, Misha doesn’t have anyone else to ask. 

Fuck it. Better to watch a documentary he’s already seen about murderous orcas instead. Maybe his subconscious will chew on the question and provide a sudden epiphany later, preferably without Misha having to put in any work. 

The knitted blanket smells faintly of weed. Misha rubs his cheek against it and breathes in. 

It feels hard-wired to last night, to the memory of kissing Jeremy. The way Jeremy let Misha in, the way he shivered and relaxed when Misha held him in place. The way he’d taken what Misha poured into him, as much as Misha had taken the smoke from Jeremy’s mouth.

God, Misha aches all over thinking of it, a sweet heavy ache arrowing down to his groin. He remembers Jeremy’s hands on him, gripping Misha’s hips to keep him on his lap at the restaurant, Jeremy’s solid thighs. That Misha had been so close to grinding down on him right there in instinctual reaction. His body knows what it wants, at least.

Misha’s hard. He can feel it throbbing slow with his pulse. He can touch it if he wants, he realizes. Nobody’s here, a precious moment of privacy.

Goddamn it, he can’t be thinking about this. He’s not going to do this right here, with Jeremy in the kitchen. 

But he wants to. His face is hot like a fever. If Jeremy came in, he could just… stop. Nobody would know. There’s nothing that says he has to get off. 

Fuck, his stupid hormones; this is crazy. This is crazy, he tells himself, as he lets his hand creep down. Wildly inappropriate. Wrong.

The first touch of his hand on his cock through the sweats, tentative, is so good it’s almost painful. Keen with relief. Misha’s breath shudders out. He bites his lip hard, darting a look at the doorway. No sign of life. 

It’s so different from the brisk way he’s touched his dick the rest of his life, handling it like just another body part like his elbow. He’s woken up hard, there’s nothing _wrong_ with him, and he came in his sleep a few times as a teenager, but there was no meaning to it. Embarrassment, maybe. God, he’s been so stupid.

Curling in on himself a little tighter, Misha cups his dick in his whole hand. He’s clumsy and it’s frustrating after that first sweet relief. He doesn’t know what to do, exactly, how to make it good. What feels good. Everything feels good, but it seems like there are better ways to go about it. Fuck, he should have researched this first. Maybe he should stop and google it? 

No. Misha’s a smart guy. He can figure this out.

Rubbing his palm over the trapped head of his cock is surprisingly good. After a few seconds, he can feel his thighs start to tremble, and pain spikes from his hip to his knee. Misha grits his teeth and stops. His breath is uneven; he can feel himself sweating.

His body strains after what it wants, like he’s burning new circuits in his brain, like the first hit of marijuana in his bloodstream. Stopping without coming seems far away, an idea that happened to somebody else. He should go upstairs and shower. He shouldn’t do this _here_. What if Jeremy wanders in?

 _Well,_ whispers a little voice in Misha’s head, _what if he does? What if he comes in and sees you like this? What if you like it?_

Misha makes a little noise in his throat, then he claps one hand over his mouth. Then, resigned to the inevitable, he shoves his hand down the front of the sweats. When he takes hold of his cock, it feels so hot it could scald his bare hand. The head is wet beneath his cupped hand. He skims his thumb in the slick in a slow circle, then another.

 _What if he comes in and puts his hands on me?_ he thinks, a flashbulb image in his mind of Jeremy’s broad palm curling around his dick, and that’s it, he’s coming in a bright pulse almost like pain. It’s good, it’s so good, his breath punched out against his muffling hand. 

He catches his come in his hand. Mostly. As the long pleasure laps slow against the limits of his body, he shudders and uncurls. The aftermath settles on him like fatigue, but kinder, softening the sharpest edges of his pain. 

His come is still cupped in the palm of his hand. He eases his hand out from beneath sweats and blankets and, darting looks at the doorway, brings it to his mouth. Clumsily, he licks his hand clean. It turns out come is not unpleasant to the taste. 

_Oh,_ Misha thinks. _So that’s what all the fuss is about._

He thinks he could sleep. Instead, he hauls his heavy bones off the couch and goes to do some laundry.

***

Eventually, Jeremy emerges from his accountant fugue. He comes into the mud room, already talking. “I couldn’t find you. I’m starving. What’re you doing in here?”

Misha gestures at the spinning dryer like a magician. 

“Well, yeah, I can _see_ that, smartass.” Jeremy leans against the washer and frowns at Misha. “You know, you don’t have to do my laundry. We’ve talked about this.”

 _You said I could do whatever I wanted,_ Misha points out. Orgasms put him in a good humor, it turns out. _I wanted to do our laundry. It’s meditative. It makes me happy._

Jeremy squints at him, clearly suspicious. “Whatever floats your boat. You look better, anyway.”

 _I feel much better,_ Misha tells him. He thinks of his graphic image of Jeremy taking Misha’s cock in his hand, a little guiltily. Not that guiltily. _Thanks._


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes nonsexual BDSM with impact play.
> 
> Indira is from poisontaster's A Kept Boy, specifically [Chapter 45](http://archiveofourown.org/works/253311/chapters/395615).

“This is Indira, calling to remind you of our appointment at 7.”

Even though Indira is using her dry business voice, there’s an element of steel beneath. Jeremy listens to the simple message and remembers her hand fisted in his hair. She hurt him, and she was kind to him, even on the days he sure he didn’t deserved kindness. It was easier to earn her praise on his knees.

He made the appointment months ago, before Marisa OD’ed. Before Misha. (It seems strange now that there _was_ a time before Misha.) He thinks about canceling it, but…

But he wants it, like a long breath of coming rain in the stifling heat. 

When Jeremy looks up, Misha is watching him from the couch. Misha raises his eyebrows in silent question. 

“Mish,” Jeremy says. “There’s something I should tell you.”

***

Misha turns Jeremy’s leather collar over in his hands, studying it. Jeremy hovers, hands in his pockets to hide their shaking.

Jeremy’s words come out in a rush. “I like it when people hurt me, sometimes. I like being pushed around. When I have to just…” 

Some shadow crosses Misha’s face and is gone, too fast to read. He leans towards Jeremy a little and signs, _just what?_

Fuck, Misha’s going to make him say it out loud. (Jeremy’s ambushed by the memory of Jeff whispering in his ear: “ask for it, sweetheart. Ask me for what you want.”) Jeremy exhales, the words sticking in his throat. They come out quiet and hoarse. “Take it.”

Misha shivers like a struck bell, dropping his eyes to the collar. For a terrible moment Jeremy thinks he’s fucked everything up, that Misha is disgusted or afraid of him. Then _oh fuck,_ his attention snags on the way Misha runs his fingertips over the buckle. The tips of Misha’s ears are pink. 

“I didn’t want to come home with bruises and freak you out,” Jeremy says, trying to fill up the tense silence. He can pretend this isn’t happening. That always works, until it blows up in his face.

Raising his eyes, Misha sets the collar down. He makes no effort to give it back to Jeremy. _Why would I be freaked out?_

Jeremy shrugs. “Other people have been. Including a couple therapists.”

Misha crinkles his nose. _That’s stupid. You take care of everyone else. It’s not so strange to want someone to take care of you._

Awkwardly, Jeremy scoffs. “I don’t take care of anyone. I’m kind of boy disaster.”

 _You take care of me,_ Misha says. 

Hovering over Misha, ready to bolt, is losing its appeal. Jeremy comes and sits next to him on the couch. “When you let me, yeah.”

 _Strong. Kind. Smart. Handsome._ Misha rolls his eyes. _Clearly the worst disaster of all time._

Jeremy tries not to preen and probably fails. “You think I’m handsome?”

Misha gives him a dour look, which is betrayed by his twitching mouth. Instead of answering, he says, _who are you seeing?_

“Indira Varma. She’s a professional, but. Y’know.” When Misha raises an eyebrow, a clear reminder that he doesn’t know, Jeremy says, “It’s not about sex. We’re friends. Sometimes it’s just something I want.”

‘Need’ is more realistic, but Jeremy can’t make himself say it. It doesn’t matter, Misha hears him what Jeremy almost says anyway.

Misha nods. His next words are uncharacteristically tentative. _I’m your friend._

It’s a relief to be on solid ground; Jeremy feels a little dizzy from the way Misha’s looking at him. “You are,” Jeremy agrees. “We are.”

There’s a bright, hungry shine to Misha’s eyes, like there was when Jeremy offered him the collar. Like Jeremy is holding something Misha wants just out of reach. Like Misha isn’t going to ask him for it.

“Do you want to come with me?” Jeremy asks. 

Jeremy would never ask anyone else. It should horrify him to think about another person seeing him stripped down raw. He fucks people easier than he lets them see him on his knees. 

But it’s Misha, and that makes a difference. 

To his relief, Misha is immediately pleased. _You wouldn’t mind?_

“I wouldn’t mind,” Jeremy says, a little surprised at how much that’s true.

****

To Indira’s credit, when Jeremy shows up with a strange new bodyslave she doesn’t blink. She takes them to the wood-panelled room without the St. Stephen’s cross. Jeremy’s glad. He hates that fucking thing, with its waiting cuffs. Indira knows better than to try to bind his wrists, but Jeremy’s body seems to remember when he didn’t have a choice about restraints. 

Maybe she has a filing cabinet full of reminders about which clients are fucking crazy. Jeremy remembers filling out a contract when they started, but he hadn’t listed bondage as a hard no. He’d thought he could grin and bear it. Then he’d almost broken his wrists trying to get _out_. Indira had been nicer about it than Jeremy thinks she should’ve been. 

When the door shuts, Indira turns to Jeremy and asks, “May I borrow Misha for a moment?”

Jeremy glances at Misha, who shrugs, before he says, “Knock yourself out.”

Indira guides Misha a few steps away. Enough for a little privacy. They watch each other like gunslingers, trying to figure each other out. Turning away, Jeremy examines the scuffed floor and tries not to listen. Still, he catches a few of Indira’s words: _demonstration, why, master._

Whatever Misha tells her is apparently enough, because Misha reappears at Jeremy’s elbow. Jeremy fingerspells _o-k?_ and Misha pats his arm, which is totally not an answer.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Indira says to Misha, gesturing to the plush armchair with the table at its side. “Have some tea if you like. Watch.”

Misha signs his thanks and sinks into the chair. He doesn’t reach for the tea, though, instead leaning forward with his hands on his knees. The intensity of Misha’s regard is like heat on Jeremy’s skin.

“Now you.” Fondness in her voice, Indira hooks her finger in Jeremy’s tie. “Take this off. The shirt as well. I want to look at you.”

“You can look at me now,” Jeremy points out, even as he’s unbuttoning his shirt.

Indira raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to fight me today?”

Jeremy grins at her. “I haven’t really decided yet.”

Fast as a snakebite, she grabs him by the chin. Her voice is dangerously soft. “Is this how you’re going to behave in front of your boy?”

Jeremy can’t make himself say that Misha isn’t his boy. That they’re friends. Bringing Misha here is as much as admitting that they’re not only friends, although damned if Jeremy knows what that makes them. More intimate than friends. Misha has seen the grimy inside of Jeremy’s heart and hasn’t turned away. 

Capitalizing on Jeremy’s hesitation, Indira uses her grip on his chin to turn his face towards Misha. Jeremy’s breath hitches in his lungs at the expression on Misha’s face, the avid light in Misha’s eyes.

"Safeword?" Indira says. 

"Promissory." To his own ears, Jeremy's voice is already scraped thin.

It's watching Misha that's killing him: the way Misha breathes faster, lips parted, his eyes devouring everything. And Indira knows that. Jeremy wonders when he got so transparent.

Because he's as much as naked in both their eyes, Jeremy unbuttons his shirt. Indira eases up on his chin, turning his head back to her. He hesitates at his belt, raising his eyes to Indira's; she smiles and doesn't help.

Slowly, Jeremy undoes his belt and his pants. He has boxers beneath and he left his shoes at the door, so it's easy enough to skim out of his pants.

Indira runs her fingernail down Jeremy's side, her eyes frankly appraising. It's so like how Jeff rousted Jeremy out of sleep, at the end of his latest manic swing, that Jeremy's breath hitches in his throat. Indira hmms at his reaction and does it again, digging her nails in this time, leaving long welts from his collarbone to his hip. 

Jeremy twitches but doesn't pull away from her. He's intensely aware of Misha's eyes on him. He wants to be good, god help him. 

"You're so handsome under those clothes," Indira says thoughtfully. "Somebody ought to keep you naked and on your knees. Would you like that?"

The words are locked in Jeremy's throat. Indira curls her small hand around his neck, her thumb resting on his windpipe like she can see what he wants to say through his skin. Even in her heels, she's shorter than Jeremy, but he doesn't doubt that she could put him on his knees if she wanted him there. 

She's waiting for an answer. Old shame prickles Jeremy's skin. Every time, it's like handing over something stained inside him. All the times he's seen bodyslaves forced to kneel and be used, all the times he wondered what was wrong in his head, all the times as he wondered if this was why the guard raped him. 

All the times he wondered if this was why Jeff left him in that hospital and didn't look back.

Tenderly, Indira strokes Jeremy’s throat with her thumb. "It’s all right. You don't have to ask. Your boy and I, we know what you need.”

Indira uses her grip on Jeremy to steer him to the wall. Once he’s there, she arranges him to her liking: on his knees, his hands braced on the wall. The wall is golden wood, cool against his forehead.

Her whisper in his ear: “now turn your face so that he can see.”

Jeremy almost balks. Indira waits him out, her spread hand resting between his shoulders. A comfortable weight. 

If Jeremy doesn’t look at Misha, he can’t see his words. He can’t see how Misha feels about this. Jeremy trusts Indira to get Misha away from a scene if he’s freaking out, but Misha can be… opaque. To people who don’t know him, anyway.

So Jeremy turns his head to look at Misha, resting his cheek against the wall. 

Misha looks back. His pupils are blown wide, the blue nearly gone. He gives Jeremy a crooked smile, encouraging, and gestures at him like _bring it on._

Though Misha is sitting forward, like he’s drawn by a magnet, Jeremy can see that Misha’s hard. God, Jeremy wants to kneel between Misha’s feet and suck him off slow.

Bringing Misha here was a mistake, but the brakes are off now. Can’t take it back. Honestly, it’s kind of a relief.

“Such a good boy,” Indira praises.

Misha hums his agreement, scalding heat down Jeremy’s spine. Jeremy squinches his eyes shut.

Indira kicks his legs farther apart, a sudden jolt. In that same soft voice, she tells him, “Keep your hands where they are.”

“Okay,” Jeremy says. The part of his brain responsible for smartass remarks is offline. “Thanks.”

She leaves him there. Jeremy listens for her, the click of her heels and the creak of her opening a cabinet to retrieve some tool to play him with. He responds to those sounds like Pavlov’s dogs. 

“What shall I use?” Indira asks. 

It takes Jeremy a second to realize she’s asking Misha, that they’re talking around him. It’s a little humiliating how much he likes it. He opens his eyes and yeah, Misha is looking him over like he can see under Jeremy’s skin to his desperate needy heart.

Misha catches Jeremy’s eyes and tilts his head, questioning. Jeremy shakes his head no; he doesn’t want to have a say. Misha’s smile grows sharper edges, and he turns towards Indira to answer.

Fuck, Misha is _liking_ this; Jeremy doesn’t know what to do with that, a loud feeling like relief and hunger all at once. 

Because he doesn’t want to know what’s coming until it hits him, Jeremy closes his eyes again. His breathing sounds loud to his own ears, not quite covering the noise of the cabinet closing.

Indira hits him. For the first brain-scrambling second, Jeremy can’t tell what she used; a noise jerks out of his throat. When she hits him again, the thin burning stripe of pain tells him that it’s a belt. It might be his belt.

“Thank you,” Jeremy gasps out belatedly, one blurred word: _thankyou_.

“Shh. You don’t have to thank me,” Indira says. “You don’t have to count. Just take it. Can you do that?”

“Okay,” Jeremy says, and barely avoids repeating ‘thank you.’ He wants to say words, to fill up the quiet between cracks of the belt so he can’t feel anything, no matter how much he wants this. No matter how much he needs this. “Okay.”

The belt strikes three times, fast. Jeremy hisses out a long breath. He can feel his pulse beating in his back and in his dick, an intensity of feeling that’s more loud than painful. It would be so easy to grind his hips against the wall, to hide his burning face, to ask Misha to stop watching this.

Instead Jeremy opens his eyes. Misha is watching him, pink in the face. When Indira hits him, with exquisite timing, Misha tenses all over.

Jeremy has a sudden, vivid image: Misha riding Jeremy’s dick, shuddering like that as he was being fucked, every time he was filled up? Would his eyes light up like that?

Every time the belt hits Jeremy, Misha reacts like he’s being kissed.

The next hit unstops Jeremy’s throat, a moan bubbling up like champagne.

“Let me hear you,” Indira says. Her voice sounds far away. “Let your boy hear how much you like this.”

Then she picks up a rhythm, the belt cracking like percussion, and Jeremy couldn’t keep quiet if he tried. He feels himself sinking, a slow trick of endorphins, softening the edges. Indira beats the sharpness out of him, the fear, the sadness. Indira uses him up until he’s languid, until he’s watching Misha with half-lidded eyes, a cat in sunshine. 

Sometimes Jeremy forgets that Misha isn’t the one wielding the belt.

It’s good. It’s so good.

It stops. The distant throbbing in Jeremy’s back feels like another lash. He makes a little complaining noise, and Indira laughs. 

“There,” Indira murmurs, “that’s very good. That’s what I wanted. You’ve done so well.”

She continues praising him, warm honey in his ear, until the individual words start to make sense. Jeremy shifts, hissing as the heat in his back resolves into pain again. 

“You’re all marked up,” Indira says. She runs her fingers down Jeremy’s spine. “It’s lovely. I wish I could take a picture of you just like this.”

That sounds like it might require actual words. Jeremy clears his throat, his voice scratchy with use. “Wouldn’t mind.”

“Sorry, love, I can’t take your word for it. I think you’d agree to be my desk if I asked right now.”

“Mn.” Jeremy blinks heavily until he can focus on Misha. Misha, who’s leaning back into his pimp chair looking shocky and sated, like he just got the best blowjob of the year. Man, Jeremy could go for giving a blowjob right now. Except his jaw kind of hurts from how hard he was pressing it against the wall. “Might be awkward at tax season.”

Indira runs her fingers through Jeremy’s hair. Gives it a little tug. “You must be coming back. You’re talking about taxes. You can move your hands.”

Cautiously, Jeremy does. His shoulders ache from being in the same position, as much as any of his muscles can ache while he feels like a wrung out rag. “Thanks. God, you’re amazing.”

“I know. Do you think you can get to your feet?”

Maybe. Probably not. “Sure.”

So Indira pulls Jeremy to his feet. His knees are stiff from kneeling; he’s grateful for the wall and then, as she leads him to Misha’s chair, for her steadying hands. Once Jeremy reaches the chair, he’s grateful for the opportunity to sit the hell down again. His head feels thick with endorphins.

“Here’s your boy,” Indira tells Misha, a smile in her voice. “I’ll leave him in your care while I fetch some juice, shall I?”

It’s strange because Indira keeps juice close at hand, like some kinky Mary Poppins, but whatever. Jeremy is happy to be spilled onto Misha’s lap.

Misha signs _thanks_. Then he takes Jeremy’s face between his hands. Peers at him like he can read something profound there. Misha’s hands are cool against Jeremy’s feverishly hot face, a benediction. Jeremy wants to kiss Misha’s fingers and his palms, his knuckles and wrists. He wants to kiss anywhere on Misha that he can reach. Flogging makes Jeremy stupidly cuddly.

“I’m okay,” Jeremy tells Misha, because that seems important. “It’s okay.”

Nodding, Misha strokes his thumbs over Jeremy’s cheekbones. His eyes are very blue, his mouth bitten up and made to be kissed.

Jeremy is so utterly screwed. Misha is under his skin now, if there was any doubt before. Jeremy should be scared. Maybe he will be after juice.

The restlessness that's always under Jeremy's skin, that impulse to bolt for cover, quiets. He sighs, the last shivers of endorphins wringing him out, and lets Misha hold him.


	36. Chapter 36

Misha drives Jeremy home, gets him settled in, and bolts (as much as he can bolt) for the shower. As soon as Misha takes his own dick in hand, he almost orgasms, on a short trigger. He jerks his hand away like he’s scalded; his whole body throbs with how close he is. 

Even though it’s been near an hour since Jeremy collapsed into Misha’s lap, the hunger burns under Misha’s skin like no time has passed. God, Jeremy was so languid and sweet.

Biting his lip, Misha curls his fingers across his cock again. It’s been a few weeks since Misha first touched himself on the couch, and he’s been like a horny teenaged boy since then, stealing time in the bathroom to do it again. With practice, he’s improved at this, but he can’t help jerking off rough and fast tonight. His breathing echoes loud off the tiles, a harsh rhythm like Indira striping Jeremy’s back. All Misha has to do is remember Jeremy’s face, slack with pleasure, and he’s shuddering and coming over his fist. He keeps going through the gutpunch of pleasure, the sound of it wet and slick as he slows. The intensity of orgasm still catches him off guard.

Misha’s knee is starting to wobble. Plus he doesn’t like the idea of leaving Jeremy alone for long, fuzzy and vulnerable as Jeremy is. Propping himself in the corner of the shower, Misha hurries through a perfunctory ablution, then turns the water cold. It doesn’t help rinse the image of Jeremy on his knees that’s branded in Misha’s brain, which is Misha’s to keep. 

****

“What are you looking at?” Jeremy asks. He’s on his stomach on the bed, only semi-awake. The long tan stretch of his back, still striped red, draws Misha’s eyes. Remembering what Indira said about aftercare and ignoring what Jeremy claims about not needing it, Misha draws the blanket back up around Jeremy. “In between fussing,” Jeremy amends, but he squirms deeper into the blanket.

 _A dildo,_ Misha signs. 

For a long few moments, Jeremy just stares at him. 

Since this is apparently complicated, Misha clarifies, _To buy. For me. It’s ethically sourced._

“Of course it is,” Jeremy says, desert dry. He looks at the phone in Misha’s hand like he can see the screen if he tries hard enough.

Misha offers it to him. 

“You don’t have to--”

Misha raises an eyebrow. Sheepishly, Jeremy takes the phone.

When Jeremy sees the dildo, he says, “Wow. That’s… ambitious. And purple.”

Compelled to defend his taste in sex toys, Misha says, _It’s in the discount section._

“Misha. It’s fucking huge. And you don’t have to shop the discount section, I will give you my credit card right now.”

Misha eyes Jeremy. _I want to buy sex toys with my own illegal money. And it’s listed as a small._

“A small horse, maybe.”

Despite himself, Misha snorts. _The Slepnir model, in Catherine the Great purple._

Jeremy grins at him. “Catherine the grape?”

 _That’s terrible,_ Misha says, briefly overwhelmed with fondness. _You win. Since you have such strong dildo opinions, tell me what to choose._

“Not that,” Jeremy says immediately. 

Misha rolls his eyes. _I gathered._

“I mean, have you ever--?” Jeremy makes a graphic gesture with his fingers, crooking them up to (Misha thinks) rub an imaginary prostate. 

Misha contemplates smothering himself with a pillow. Somehow this is worse than when Jensen asks Misha about masturbation, because Jensen doesn’t make hand gestures that will probably haunt Misha’s fantasies for weeks.

 _Jensen sent me diagrams,_ is what Misha settles on. He gestures at his knee for emphasis. _I tried it in the shower and nearly broke my neck._

“Jensen has diagrams?” Jeremy asks, because of course that’s the operative question here.

 _Jensen drew diagrams,_ Misha says, dourly.

“Oh.” Jeremy blinks, clearly picturing the diagrams. “That was nice of him? And also kind of terrifying. Which sums up Jensen, I guess.”

Misha frowns and starts to say that Jensen isn’t terrifying once you get to know him. Then he checks himself, because he finds Jeff as impenetrable and strange as Jeremy finds Jensen, and for much the same reasons. Jeff is an unknown factor to Misha, a gravity-like pull on Jeremy, as alien as the moon. 

Misha has a diagram of his own about Jeff, two columns of pros and cons. On their short acquaintance, Jeff is not much like Javier, but he’s still a Morgan. Vincent warned Misha about the Morgan clan, that they were unstable with a large blast radius, although Vincent never explained what he meant by that. Maybe he was only referring to Jeff’s abolitionism. Maybe there are other skeletons in Jeff’s closets. Vincent isn’t around to ask.

And, to be fair, Misha just doesn’t like the way Jeff looks at Jeremy when Jeremy isn’t watching, the distant longing and the hunger of it, moth to flame. Misha didn’t think he was the jealous type, but. Well. Clearly there are a lot of things Misha didn’t know about himself.

That he likes to watch Jeremy get beaten, for one thing. That he likes to fuss over Jeremy in the aftermath: keeping him warm, keeping him close. 

“It’d be easier in bed,” Jeremy says. “That way you’re not fighting gravity. You could, um, spread out. And use decent lube.”

_I used shampoo._

“Oh, dude,” Jeremy says, appalled like Misha just announced he’s into eating kittens. “No. Trust me, you’d regret that pretty quickly.”

It’s funny that Jeremy finds Jensen terrifying, because both of them have strong opinions about the strangest things. Leaving that alone, Misha says, _And I’ll just roust you from our bed while I jerk off._

Misha resists the urge to add that Jeremy could stay to watch, if he wanted.

Jeremy goes to shrug and winces as his back pulls. “Sure. Why not? It’s your bed, too.”

Automatically derailed by the wince, Misha sits up. _Are you hurting? Can I get you anything?_

“It’s okay, Mish. Hurting is kind of the point.”

Misha lays back down, then he pushes Jeremy’s stray hair behind his ear. Jeremy’s grin gentles, and he tilts his head to bump against Misha’s knuckles. That same errant tendril of hair promptly escapes to dangle in Jeremy’s face again. 

Misha doesn’t tell him that Indira said to take care of Jeremy tonight, or that a great fierce streak of protectiveness has risen up to bite Misha hard. He doesn’t say that when Jeremy knelt at Misha’s feet, Misha wanted to pull Jeremy up onto his lap. Instead Misha says, _You were beautiful._

Jeremy ducks his head, going a little pink. His voice is uncharacteristically soft. “You don’t think I’m… I don’t know. Freaky. Broken. Whatever. Since I let her do that.”

 _Strong,_ Misha corrects. _Lovely. I don’t think less of you._

Jeremy quirks a smile, bittersweet. “So you’ll still respect me in the morning?”

 _I respect you now, darling,_ Misha says. The endearment slips from his hands, and he winces inside, but Jeremy’s shoulders visibly unknot.

“I’m glad you were there,” Jeremy says. “I mean, I’m glad _you_ were there. I trust you.”

Which is a stronger pronouncement from Jeremy than ‘I love you.’ _Thanks,_ Misha says, inadequately.

Apparently that satisfies Jeremy, though. Jeremy returns to the phone, touch-typing away, then hands it back to Misha. “These are some smaller toys. Thinner than fingers, even. It should be, uh, easier.”

Misha frowns at the webpage. _It says beginner. How long is this going to take? Is there an apprenticeship program I don’t know about?_

Jeremy snorts. “You in a rush?”

Transferring his frown to Jeremy, Misha asks, _Did you take it slow?_

“Yeah. It took a while. He--” Jeremy stares into the past at some memory, then clears his throat. “It was worth it. Made it better.”

It doesn’t require a genius to assume that Jeff was the one who took care of Jeremy, who made Jeremy wait so he didn’t get hurt. Grudgingly, Misha adds another check to his mental tally of nice things Jeff’s done.

Misreading Misha’s sigh, Jeremy says, “If this is too pushy, you don’t have to listen to me. Maybe you should go to a store with Jensen or something.”

Misha puts a thin black plug in his cart. _Not you. Feels like everyone else knows these things and I’m stuck in remedial classes with beginner’s dildos._

“Aw, dude, no.” Jeremy pets Misha’s shoulder. “Your sample size is all screwed up. I only know this stuff because I’m a slut. Jensen knows because he went to bodyslave school.”

Misha squints at Jeremy, suspicious. He’s never sure if he should protest when Jeremy calls himself a slut, a title Jeremy seems to wear with mixed pride and self-deprecation. _Are you trying to make me feel better?_

“Yeah,” Jeremy drawls, “it’s a terrible habit I have. But I’m not lying. You’ll figure it out.” 

If Misha’s lucky, he’ll figure it out before he dies of old age. Jeremy’s trying to be comforting, though, and despite himself Misha is a little comforted. Misha puts the phone aside; he’ll pay later. When he squirms a little closer to Jeremy and stretches out his arm, Jeremy obligingly throws an arm over Misha’s stomach and rests his head on Misha’s shoulder. 

“Thanks,” Jeremy says, almost inaudible. 

Misha can’t answer, one arm trapped beneath Jeremy’s head. Instead he touches Jeremy’s face with his free hand, strokes his thumb across Jeremy’s cheekbone. He tries to imbue his touch with all the tenderness and awe he can, with his gratitude that Jeremy lets Misha see him like this.

Jeremy sighs, rubs his cheek against Misha like an affectionate cat, and closes his eyes. Misha tucks the blanket around him again, his arm already going pins and needles, and stares at the ceiling.

Maybe by the time the dildo arrives, Misha will be brave enough to ask Jeremy to help him use it.


	37. Chapter 37

They’re twenty minutes into the session when Cate asks, “And how is Misha?”

“Fine,” Jeremy says, too fast. It’s been several days, but he still feels the lingering ache of the flogging where his back presses against Cate’s couch. “Are we talking about Misha?”

Cate pours herself another cup of tea. Her mug is hideous and homemade, a gift from Ryzer with a wobbly portrait of stick-figure Cate. It clashes with her lilac sweater and with the serene office. The late afternoon sunlight slanting across the room, the pot of tea… it’s miles away from the institution where they first met.

But some part of Jeremy always wonders if she’s locked the office door. If he could get out if he needed to.

Of course he can. But he wonders anyway.

“Would you like to talk about Misha?” Cate asks. “I know we had agreed to avoid that for now, but the offer’s on the table.”

“I don’t know how you drink that much tea without needing to pee a billion times per hour.”

Cate smiles. “Evasion.”

“Yeah,” Jeremy admits. The truth is that he doesn’t want to evade anymore. All the stuff that’s been happening with Misha, the kissing and the kink and the giddy welcome comfort of it, and nobody outside the house knows. He can’t tell Wendy or Z. He can’t tell Jeff. Cate is the only one he can talk about this with. Cate is safe. “We should probably talk about Misha.”

“I’ll admit I’m curious. Misha is a mysterious figure. He keeps himself to himself, as they say.” 

Jeremy shrugs. “Hard to talk to people when they don’t speak your language.”

In response, Cate signs, _I’m learning. Slowly._

“Hey, that’s awesome.” Jeremy beams at her. “It’s harder to read sign than it is to sign. Muscle memory. So if you want somebody to sign with, just call me.”

Cupping her hands around the mug again, Cate says, “I’m not the only person trying to learn ASL. It’s clear you’re fond of him.”

Jeremy is automatically alarmed that any of his feelings are clear; he has so many to hide. “Oh?”

Adding insult to injury, Cate reads his expression and laughs. “No, Jeremy, you’re still as opaque as ever. It’s only regarding Misha.”

“Well.” Jeremy leans harder into the couch, needing the ghost of that night at Indira’s. That moment of reassurance. “We’re friends.”

“I’m glad. You can do with more friends. Especially those you allow close.” 

Jeremy gestures at the room around them: the couch, the teapot, Cate herself curled like a cat in her armchair. “I’m talking to you about this, aren’t I?”

“You are,” Cate says. “And I’m glad to be in your confidence. ButI don’t know if you’d be seeing me without Misha.”

Jeremy has the perverse, kneejerk urge to say that Misha has no influence on him. He’s spent all the years since the hospital trying like hell to stand on his own feet. His disasters are of his own making, and even that is a point of pride. But he can’t deny Misha has changed everything. So, grudgingly, he says, “I’d probably be off hiding in crazy town.”

“You do have a habit of disappearing to lick your wounds. Of not allowing much intimacy.”

“You should talk.”

The corner of Cate’s eyes crinkle with her rueful smile. “Like recognizes like. We’re talking about you right now. I think you letting Misha in is a sign of growth, not a detriment.”

“Maybe.” Jeremy realizes belatedly that he’s fidgeting, his knee bouncing like he’s ready to leave. He forces himself to stop. Sighs. “It just sort of happened. He already saw me at my worst.”

“Being mentally ill isn’t a failure of character, Jeremy. We’ve discussed this before.”

Yikes, evade. “Yeah. And I told you before, it’s all in my head and what I do. Does it matter if I’m crazy or if I’m just a douchebag? I’m still hurting people.”

“And like before, we come to a stalemate.” With a gesture of her hand, Cate dismisses the old argument. “We’re not going to change each other’s minds in the rest of the session. Do you mind if we keep talking about Misha?”

“Yeah, it’s cool.” 

The grooves of that fight are set in stone from repetition, since they’ve been having it since Jeremy first got out of the hospital. Blah blah self-compassion, blah blah chemical imbalance, blah blah he’s a slave to his fucked-up brain. Jeremy forces himself out of the worn path. 

“Misha and I talk a lot. He’s like you. I end up telling him things. He asks smart questions. He’s gotten under my skin, I guess. He’s...” Jeremy stops, the pressure of words in his head. It’s both like and unlike being manic; it’s everything that he wants to say about Misha, his quirks and his sense of humor and his empathy, that he hasn’t had anyone to tell. He hasn’t felt like that since… fuck, since Jeff, when he kept everything quiet because he was 16 and alone and stupidly in love.

“He drove you to a session,” Cate says. “And he’s waiting for you in my house. I don’t remember you letting anyone do that before. Even Wendy or Zach.”

“I know. It’s weird. I let him in, but I don’t mind. I don’t feel…” Jeremy spreads his hands, helplessly. “Trapped. Scared.”

Cate nods. Reflects back at him, “It sounds intimate.” 

Too aware of the clock ticking down on his hour, Jeremy rips off the bandaid: “I brought him Indira’s.”

It’s kind of a non-sequitur. Bless Cate, because she doesn’t struggle to follow. “Indira Varma?”

“You know, the domme. She owns that place downtown.”

“I know of her.” Cate leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Am I supposed to be appalled? I’m not.”

“We didn’t have sex.” 

“I wouldn’t be appalled if you’d had sex with him.” Cate raises an eyebrow. “The last time we spoke, you weren’t sure if he was interested in sex.”

Jeremy barks a laugh, thinking about talking with Misha about dildos. “He’s interested. Believe me.”

“Do you still find him attractive?” When he just laughs again, more bitterly, Cate nods in understanding. “Can I make an observation?”

“Why do you think I told you?”

“You are friends, but you’re also as close as lovers. I think only sex is keeping you from seeing it as a romantic relationship.” Cate holds up a hand to stop him from interrupting, although he isn’t going to; his heart is in his throat, locking any words in. “And telling him how you feel.”

Hearing her say it out loud is both a relief and balls-out terrifying. Jeremy exhales. “I don’t want to lose him. Or hurt him.”

“You and Jeff are always so concerned about hurting other people,” Cate says, a funny little quirk to her smile. “As if hurting yourselves doesn’t count.”

 _It doesn’t,_ Jeremy almost says. But that isn’t what she wants to hear, and he doesn’t want an unproductive circular argument about whether he’s a bad person. “What if he says no? What if he’s disgusted? What if he’s afraid?”

“What if he says yes?” Cate counters. “You’ve tried hiding your feelings and it’s cost you. I know you have regrets. I also know that you can do this.”

Wrenchingly, desperately, Jeremy says, “Can I?”

“Oh, Jeremy.” Setting her tea aside, Cate reaches for his hands. Jeremy lets her take them, even if it reminds him, for a second, of restraints. Her hands are still warm from the mug. “Yes. Of course you can.”

***

 _Jensen got a cat,_ Misha signs, and hands Jeremy his phone.

The photo is indeed a cat, an orange kitten that's about 90% ears. "That's adorable. He says it's Jared's cat, though."

Misha gives Jeremy a look. _Jared has a lot of animals. But Jensen took pictures of this cat._

"Oh." Jeremy considers. “Awesome. That sounds like progress.”

And hell, if Jensen can make progress, maybe Jeremy can too.


	38. Chapter 38

Jeremy wakes up to the dulcet sounds of Denis cursing at him.

“Hngh?” Jeremy says, or something like it, as his brain struggles through deep sleep.

It must seem like proof of consciousness, or close enough for Denis, because Denis throws the cordless house phone at him. Misha, snuggled up behind him, stirs and growls quietly.

“Answer your fucking cell next time, asshole,” Denis snarls, and stomps out of the bedroom. Jeremy gets a truly regrettable view of Denis’s naked ass before the door slams behind him.

Muzzily, Jeremy glances at the clock. Quarter after 5 am, still dark o’clock. He mutters some vague greeting. All the people who would call him this early (Meadow, Marisa or Gina, maybe Z) will be too freaked to mind.

But instead of Meadow asking Jeremy to bail her out of jail (again), or Gina calling about Marisa wrecking their apartment, or Z calling to say Wendy or Ryzer are sick…it’s Jeff. Jeff, sounding heartsick and scared: “Jer, I need you. I really need you. Can you come?”

“Of course,” Jeremy says instinctively, because that’s really the only answer. The part of Jeremy’s heart that’s still leashed to Jeff and always will be gives a lurch. It’s like a car trying to pull out of the mud, Jeremy’s brain still half-asleep but his heart already pounding. “You want me to come there?”

Is someone dead, is what he means. Is someone in the ER? Are the cops at the door? These are the only reasons Jeff would call Jeremy for help. 

“Fuck,” Jeff says, a particular desperate snag in his voice. “Just forget it. Give me a call later, when you wake up, okay?”

Okay. So nothing is actually on fire. Jeff is calling Jeremy for help when he doesn’t have to. Jeff is calling _Jeremy_. Jeff needs him. Holy fuck, Jeremy thought Jeff would never need him again.

Jeremy sits up, scrubbing a hand over his face. "No. No, I'm up. Just… fuck, give me a minute. I'll get some caffeine in me, I'll be there. I'm already on my way."

Alarmingly, Jeff doesn’t even fight him on it. Shit must be serious. "All right, man. Um. Thanks."

“Yeah, yeah,” Jeremy gripes, like his heart isn’t turning over in his chest like an old rusty engine. He hangs up before Jeff can change his mind.

Misha is already awake, upright as a meerkat. His hair is flattened on one side from sleeping on it. Jeremy turns on the light just in time to see Misha sign, worried, _Jensen okay?_

Yeah, maybe it is something about Jensen. Though why would Jeff be calling Jeremy about Jensen?

Some hateful hungry part of him whispers, _maybe they broke up. Wouldn’t that be nice?_

Jeremy shakes his head, physically trying to dispel that thought. God, he’s a fucking asshole. “I don’t know. Jeff would’ve said if Jensen was hurt.” Probably. “You don’t have to come. Jeff is my…”

Jeremy stops, out of words.

Misha looks at him, his expression interested. _Your what?_

"Problem," Jeremy says. It’s a lame answer, but how is he supposed to distill down twenty years into a word? Jeff is everything to him. Technically, Jeff is nothing to him. 

_Your problems are my problems,_ Misha says. 

“Jeff’ll be thrilled to hear you adopted him like a stray cat,” Jeremy says.

_It worked with you._

“I’m reminding you of this whole ‘mis problemas es sus problemas’ thing the next time Traci tells you to have surgery.”

 _We’ll see,_ Misha says. _And I’m going._

They’re stalling. If Jeremy keeps looking at Misha all rumpled in Jeremy’s old clothes, he might tip Misha back into bed and never leave. He’s been spoiled by all this time on their own, comfortable and intimate as a blanket fort. He doesn’t want to let anyone else in. 

He climbs out of bed, starts searching the floor for his shirt. “Okay, bossypants. Get dressed, then. We’ll get some coffee on the way.”

****

Jeff is waiting for them at the door, illuminated in the halo of the porch light. He’s smoking in great puffs; Jeremy wonders if it’s tobacco or weed. As Jeff sees them pull in, he flicks his cigarette aside and straightens. 

“Hey,” is all Jeremy manages before Jeff’s arms are around him. Automatically Jeremy hugs him back. “Hey, man, it’s okay.”

Jeff chuffs out a laugh, his forehead pressed against Jeremy’s shoulder. “It’s all fucked up.”

“So situation normal, then,” Jeremy says.

Jeremy always forgets how narrow Jeff is, compared to the space he takes up inside Jeremy’s head; he forgets the way Jeff’s skin smells, an intimate kick to the hindbrain. He forgets that touching Jeff is like a bad habit he can backslide into. Before his latest manic break, Jeremy had rationed himself down to back-thumping dude hugs. Then Jeff had to go and make it weird.

More weird.

Jeremy pulls back. Jeff lets him go, though not without keeping one hand fisted in Jeremy’s jacket. Sighing, Jeff gives Misha a pale smile. “Hey, Mish. Sorry to wake you up. You could’ve stayed home.”

Misha shrugs, hands open. Then he points at the front door and raises his eyebrows, asking without words if they can do this inside. Misha is probably killer at charades. At this point, Jeremy is sorely tempted to buy ASL for Dummies so he can hit people over the head with it. Maybe they’ll learn by osmosis.

It’s not exactly fair. Jeremy didn’t learn to sign until he had to for the Matlin account. But it’s also not fair to shove Misha to the outside of their weird little group just because almost nobody speaks his language. 

At least Misha has Jensen.

“Shit, sorry, Misha,” Jeff says. His hair is standing up in places like he was running his hands through it, and Jeremy’s fingers itch to smooth it down. “We can go in. I just didn’t want you to knock. I don’t know if Jensen’ll be up for company, though. He’s pretty…”

Jeff trails off. Ominous. Jeremy scoffs and says, “Everybody knows Jensen’s pretty, dude. Let’s go in.”

***

At first, Jeremy can’t tell why Jeff is showing him the quilt on the couch. Then Jeremy sees the little kid-shaped lump under the quilt, the mop of curly brown hair. Robin’s kid, his tear-streaked face peeking out from a nest of covers.

Jeremy has a sinking suspicion. Turning to ask Jeff what the fuck, he sees the stricken look on Jeff’s face. He puts two and two together (Robin showing up with kid in tow looking for Jeff, Jeff calling Jeremy in a panic) and gets four. Faintly, Jeremy says, “Oh shit. He’s yours?”

Crooking a bitter smile, Jeff nods. “He’s mine. Nice of Robin to tell me, right?”

“I didn’t know,” Jeremy says. “I would’ve warned you--”

“I didn’t know either.”

Jeremy shakes his head, sour anger in his gut. “Where the fuck is she?”

Jeff shrugs. Jams his fingers into his pockets. “She took off. Left him here. Didn’t even tell the kid goodbye.”

“What a bitch,” Jeremy says, with feeling. He’s half grateful that she’s gone; he doesn’t want to grab a sick woman by the shoulders and shake her until her brain rattles. He doesn’t know that he could smother his temper. “Poor fucking kid.”

“Four years. He doesn’t even know me.” Turning red-rimmed eyes on Jeremy, Jeff asks a little desperately: “Jer, am I that awful?”

“Fuck no.” Jeremy slings an arm around Jeff and squeezes, leaning their heads together. “No. This isn’t on you.”

“After what I did to you--”

“You didn’t do anything to me,” Jeremy says too sharply. Feeling Jeff tense, he squeezes him again and forces his voice gentler. “You pulled me off a roof. I went crazy, that’s all, and...”

_And you never came to the hospital. And I didn’t see you until I got back from Meadow’s. And you didn’t want me anymore._

“And if you knocked me up, I’d have called you. You’d be the first,” he says instead. “I’d have made you take me to Lamaze classes. And tell your mom.”

“Good thing you didn’t get pregnant, then. You know your sister would’ve made it a shotgun wedding. And you couldn’t wear white.” 

“That’s fine. White washes me out anyway.”

“Shut up, you look great in white.” 

Despite himself, Jeremy feels a little zing of happiness at the compliment. He tosses his hair. “Well, I _am_ a winter. Meadow did a test and everything.”

Jeff laughs his charmingly dorky laugh, trying to stifle it for the kid’s sake. “You’re a good brother.”

“I’m the best, it’s true.”

As the last of the laughter fades out of him, Jeff sighs and changes the subject. “At least Bodhi likes Jensen.”

“Shit.” Jeremy whips his head around to look at Jeff. Their faces are too close together, close enough to kiss. Awkwardly, Jeremy moves away. “How’s Jensen with this?”

“Amazing,” Jeff says. The fondness in his voice makes Jeremy’s traitor heart squeeze tight. “Incredible. He stepped right up while I was still flailing around.”

“Good,” Jeremy says. “I’m really glad.”

They fall into quiet, both of them looking at the kid. At Bodhi. Jeremy doesn’t know what he’s feeling, exactly, but it hurts. 

Jeff won’t have time for him anymore. Jeff won’t want Jeremy around anymore. Too crazy, too unpredictable, too confusing for the kid. Since Jensen showed up, Jeremy’s been losing Jeff by inches. He didn’t even see it coming. But now, with a kid… it’s worse to know that Jeff is going, going, gone.

Jeremy pushes everything back into the lockbox inside his brain to deal with later. (Or never. Never is good.) He’s being a selfish jerk. Jeff needs him right now. 

“He looks little for four,” Jeff says. “I need to get him to a doctor. I don’t even know if he’s had shots. Robin didn’t leave anything but some clothes and toys. I need to buy the kid a bed. I need to figure out school. I need everything.”

“Well,” Jeremy says. “Money’s not a problem, at least. Fuck, does your mom know? She’s gonna have kittens.”

“She knows. She’s happy. She wants to change his name, though.” 

“Of course she does. I guess she’s not a fan of Point Break. She does know he’s not like a cat, right? I mean, it’s not like he’ll answer to whatever you call him.”

“He doesn’t like being called kiddo.” Jeff’s breath hitches in his throat, an almost-sob. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

Oh hell. Jeremy wraps Jeff back into a hug, rests his hand on the nape of Jeff’s nape. Pretends he can’t feel the leak of tears through his shirt. “It’s gonna be okay, honey. Everything’s gonna be okay. You’ve got this.”

Jeff chokes out a laugh. “No, I really don’t.”

“All right, so you’ve got a lot of people who can help.”

“I’m gonna need it.” Jeff lifts his head, pulling back from Jeremy a little to stare into a face. “You’re gonna be here.”

It’s not really a question. Jeremy wonders where Jeff got the idea he was reliable, but it’s a good feeling. It’s shiny and new. “If you want me here.” 

“I need you,” Jeff says simply. 

And so everything Jeremy’s wanted for years is handed to him like something easy. Jeff has said he needs Jeremy three times today. It’s both giddy-high and bittersweet, because Jeff doesn’t mean it like that. Jeff never will again. Still Jeremy tucks the words inside somewhere safe, to turn them over in his brain in the depressive hours when he feels grimy and useless and lost. Jeff needs him. 

“Then I’m here,” Jeremy says. There’s nothing else he could ever say. “And Misha is here. Turns out he’s good with kids, and Bodhi knows sign, so…”

He falters to a stop, because Jeff is studying his face like he can see Jeremy’s feelings for Misha written there. All the long night conversations, the dangerous shotgun kisses, the way Jeremy wants to run his hands down Misha’s long body. Jeff’s mouth has a funny little quirk. Exposed, Jeremy squirms to get away.

“Nope,” Jeff says, and leans up to kiss Jeremy’s forehead with an obnoxiously loud smack. “Okay, _now_ you can go.”

“Asshole,” Jeremy grumbles, wiping off the whiskery memory of Jeff’s mouth. Jeff makes it goddamn difficult to forget. 

“You know it.” Jeff lets him go, finally, and stands there with his hands in his pockets. “I want to find Robin.”

“Why the hell would you do that?” Jeremy says, but he’s already calculating the price in his head. Private detectives, potential travel costs, maybe bribes to get Robin back here… manageable. Barely. But the costs of Robin moving here are another matter. “What are you going to do when she’s back? Is she living here? Are you paying for her treatment?”

“She’s already paying for her medical costs.” Jeff looks down, scuffing his boots across the carpet. “She’s in debt. I want to pay it off.”

Stomach tightening, Jeremy asks, “How much debt?”

Jeff tells him. Jeremy stares into space for a minute, doing the math in his head, and dread sinks in as he can’t make it work. “Jeff,” he starts to say.

Jeff looks up at him, jaw set. “I’m not letting his mother go to Escrow.”

Jeremy almost asks what the fuck he’s supposed to do, print more money? But he knows that Jeff means everything he’s saying, even before he reads the stubborn desperation on Jeff’s face. If Jeff was the kind of person who’d let Robin go into slavery, he wouldn’t be Jeff. If Robin gets sold, it’ll break something in him. 

Jeff’s already got a guilt complex a mile wide, and it has Jeremy’s name on it. It has Kane’s too, Jeremy knows, but Jeremy broke him first. It’s on him. 

Jeff has to save Robin, just like he had to save Jensen. And Jeremy has to save Jeff.

“Jer?” Jeff says, half-pleading.

“I’ll talk to Kane,” Jeremy says. “We’ll figure it out.” 

Naked relief crosses Jeff’s face. “That’s what Kane said. Thank you, man.”

They’ll find the money. Even if Jeremy has to slip some of his own into Jeff’s accounts, they will, and Jeremy will lie about sudden windfalls straight to Jeff’s face. It’s not like Jeremy doesn’t have too much anyway. 

Glancing away from Jeff, Jeremy nods at the kid. “He’s cute. Lucky he looks more like Robin than you.”

“He really is,” Jeff says. He already looks at the kid like Zach looked at newborn Ryzer, a poleaxed expression of terror and joy. And love. The kid has Jeff wrapped around his finger. That’s good, considering that Bodhi’s been torn from his mom and thrown into a whole new life. The poor kid must be scared as hell. No wonder he cried himself to sleep. 

Unexpectedly, Jeff laughs. “I keep remembering he’s mine and it’s like being kicked in the head. I’m terrified and I’m still thinking if I should get him a racecar bed. Or if he likes dogs.” 

“He’s your kid. He’s gonna like dogs.”

“I hope so.” Jeff gives Jeremy a watery, radiant grin. “I’m a dad, Jer.”

Jeremy has to squeeze him again and tell him what he told Zach, once upon a time: “Congratulations, dude.”


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the end notes for a list of triggers contained in this chapter.

Jeff is the one that called for help in the middle of the night, but Jeremy has Jeff in hand. (Misha tries not to think about the innuendo in that statement.) So Misha goes looking for Jensen, mostly to get out of the way. If Jensen truly doesn’t want company, Misha can play endless rounds of Tetris in an unobtrusive corner.

In the early morning quiet, the tapping of Misha’s cane seems obscenely noisy. Not a creature stirring, almost; he finds Sam in the kitchen kneading bread and slips away before she can notice him. He doesn’t know if Sam speaks sign, and he’s not up for a second round of charades.

He finds Jensen in a small formal room off the kitchen. Jensen is staring out a window into the backyard, a neglected tea cup at his elbow. Somehow Jensen seems diminished in the absence of other people, but Misha hesitates in the doorframe, unsure of his welcome.

In the end, Misha clears his throat to signal his presence. Sharply, Jensen swivels towards him, and relaxes when he sees that it’s Misha. Funny how that lights an affectionate warmth in Misha’s heart.

 _Sorry,_ Misha signs. _Jeff called Jeremy over. I wanted to see if you’re okay._

“I’m fine,” Jensen tells him, and indicates the chair beside him. Jensen’s clothes are uncharacteristically wrinkled and plain, as if they were pulled from the floor in a rush.

Hesitating, Misha says, _I don’t want to bother you._

“Please,” Jensen says. “I like your company. Let me get you a tea cup. It’s only plain black tea, but I need the caffeine.”

The rituals of hospitality. It seems to soothe Jensen to have someone to help, so Misha doesn’t object. He signs his thanks, dropping into the offered chair. Pain is an ember in his thigh; he kneads at it as Jensen retrieves a cup and pours the tea.

 _Did Jeff keep you up all night?_ Misha asks. _I mean that pornographically._

“Unfortunately no. And you?”

_Not yet. I have hopes. I kissed Jeremy._

Jensen raises his eyebrows, interested. “What did he think?”

 _We’ve done it again. It must not be appalling._ Misha smiles. _Thanks to the lipbalm, probably. And your tutoring._

“Hm. I don’t think he would turn you away in any case.” Still, Jensen smiles back. “Thanks, though.”

 _I asked him to shotgun me,_ Misha says. _He may have turned me away otherwise. Is that cheating?_

“There’s no cheating in body slavery. I don’t think he’d have made the first move. They’re all… skittish about that. In case they’re not welcome.” Jensen says, “You may want to wait for him to take the next step..”

 _He asked me to go with him to Indira’s,_ Misha says. Half question, half brag. _He let me watch._

Jensen blinks. “You’ve been holding out on me. Did you like it?”

Misha hums, definitely smug now. He can’t help it, but he doesn’t even try. _I wasn’t sure I would. I did it mostly because he asked and because you suggested it. But I enjoyed it. I was glad to give him something he needed._

“Who did he see?” Jensen asks, all professional interest. “Mistress Violet does good work.”

 _Indira,_ Misha says.

“Really?” Leaning forward in his seat, Jensen studies Misha. “She doesn’t work many individual sessions these days, or so I’ve heard.”

Interesting. So Jeremy merited special attention. Misha has twin reactions of pride (that other people see that Jeremy is valuable and lovely) and feral possessiveness. _I think they’re friends. She tried to convince him to quit his job and be her boy._

Jensen cocks his head. “He must be good. I wonder if he and Jeff--”

There are footsteps in the hall.

An older woman passes by the doorway, pausing to look in at them. She looks washed out and tired. She reminds Misha of a 21st century version of a gothic horror character, a ghost wandering the moors while wringing her hands. Although a gothic horror character might not have such big hair. Misha finds himself charmed. Something about the bone structure of her face...

Jensen doesn’t look at her, though his posture radiates awareness that she’s there and watching. He has one of his unnerving nothing expressions on. It’s the least courteous thing Misha’s ever seen Jensen do. The woman breaks eye contact and continues on her way.

 _Who is that?_ Misha asks. 

“No one,” Jensen says shortly. His index finger taps on the tea cup. “A guest of Jeff’s.”

That raises more questions than it answers. A moment ago, Misha would have guessed that Jensen would never give one of Jeff’s guests such a cold shoulder. Misha almost asks, and he would if it was Jeremy, but Jensen looks so tired and sad. Even curiosity can’t make Misha prod at him.

“Did you know your mother?” Jensen asks, abrupt. When Misha blinks at him, feeling slapped by the question, Jensen makes a smoothing over gesture. “No, never mind. I shouldn’t have asked you that. I’m sorry.”

 _I knew her in a literal sense,_ Misha signs. _Figuratively, no. I didn’t understand her at all._

It’s too mysterious a thing to say aloud. The question stirs up the deep waters of memories, anger rising like silt. Misha makes himself shrug it off and smile.

“She’s dead now,” Jensen says, not quite asking. 

_You could look at my provenance._ Before Jensen can accept the implied rebuke, Misha continues, _We were in a train station in Chicago. She had a warrant out for her arrest. Sedition. Debt. The police took me first. She saw it. She grabbed my brother and fell onto the tracks. It was fast, at least._

“I’m sorry,” Jensen says, both sympathy and apology, letting Misha decide which way to take it.

 _It was a long time ago._ For once Misha is grateful for the aphasia, because he can pretend his voice would be steady. He looks into the teacup and still sees it: the knifelike sheen of the train under fluorescent lights, the horrified grandmother covering a toddler’s eyes, the driver’s mouth still open in a bleakly hilarious ‘oh.’ Then he blinks and it’s gone. His eyes are dry. _She always promised she wouldn’t let us be slaves._

Sudden acid in his voice, Jensen says, “Being a bodyslave isn’t a fate worse than death. It isn’t the worst thing that can happen to someone. I’m not-- I’m not sorry I’m alive.”

Misha tilts his head. He almost asks if Jeff said something, but instead he tells Jensen, _I’m glad you’re alive, too._

“Many of my masters were kind. I was good at it.” As if realizing belatedly what he admitted, Jensen squares his shoulders and adds, “I am good at it.”

 _Of course you are,_ Misha says. He wants to ask what the hell happened, if ‘Jeff’s guest’ did this, why Jeff called them over in the middle of the night. He doesn’t know how to ask these things without pushing Jensen off an emotional ledge. He wishes to be good at this, instead of everything Vincent taught him that he can no longer use. _Jeff’s lucky to have you._

Jensen shakes his head, denying. “I’m lucky to have him.”

And maybe Misha is starting to believe that. 

Carefully, Misha reaches over for Jensen’s hand. Jensen lets him take it, his smile like a pale moon of itself. Misha isn’t used to touching anyone but Jeremy; Jensen’s skin is softer, his hands elegantly manicured. It’s surprisingly nice to hold Jensen’s hand. Grounding Misha in the now.

“Thanks for telling me about your mother,” Jensen says after a few moments. “I’m sorry if I brought it back. It’s easier, sometimes, if you can just forget about things.”

Misha nods, then signs one-handed, _You have nothing to be sorry for._

“If only,” Jensen says, bitter as oversteeped tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains graphic references to past suicide and child death.


	40. Chapter 40

They linger at Jeff’s into the afternoon. When they get home, the dildo package is on the front doorstep. Jeremy freezes right there, staring stupidly at the postage label. 

Right. Okay. That’s a thing that’s happening. Now he’s going to pick the box up and go inside while not thinking about Misha using it.

Any minute now.

Jeremy’s thought process scatters, the consequence of shock about Bodhi and of fucking with his sleep schedule. When did he get a sleep schedule? When did he get domesticated? That should probably bother him more than it does.

Then again, he doesn’t have a surprise kid, so comparatively speaking he’s winning the immature manchild sweepstakes. Fuck yeah, vasectomies.

He needs caffeine. He needs to get his shit together. He needs to stop thinking about Misha slicking up the dildo and pressing it in, about Misha’s mouth going slack with pleasure…

Misha is on the step beside him, waving a hand in front of Jeremy’s face. When Jeremy blinks at him, Misha quirks an eyebrow. 

“Sorry.” Shaking his head, Jeremy unlocks the front door. The inside of the house is cool and dark. Denis is gone again; he’s been gone a lot, lately, which is another thing to stress over. Then again, Jeremy can’t say he’s sorry he missed Denis loudly stroking out about having to touch a box with dildos in it.

Again. 

Jeremy’s twenties involved a lot of Denis stroking out.

“Your stuff came,” Jeremy says, already setting the box down. “You want some coffee? I want some coffee--”

Misha takes the package right out of Jeremy’s hands, tucking it against his side with one arm. _No, thank you. I’m going to borrow the bedroom._

“-- okay?” Jeremy blinks at him. “Um. Yeah. Good luck. Use lube. Do you want me to carry the box upstairs?”

Misha grins at him, disarmingly sweet. _Chivalrous, but no._ Then he starts up the stairs. Jeremy turns his back, a performance of putting his keys on the hook by the door, but his entire awareness is centered on the thump of Misha’s step.

He hears Misha reach the top step. A few moments later, he hears the closing of the bedroom door. Before he can succumb to the temptation to listen for any other sounds, he goes into the kitchen. 

Not that sounds won’t carry into the kitchen. Fuck, his brain is scrambled by crossed impulses to join Misha in their bed like a scumbag or to leave the house entirely like a coward. But no, he’s just going to sit at the goddamn kitchen table and do some goddamn taxes.

(It’s not like Misha will make a lot of noise, jerking off. Although fuck, what if he does? What if Misha is making that pleased purring sound now, surprised how good it is to be fucked?)

Jeremy can’t concentrate on the taxes. He’s too keyed into the noises of the house, its old creaks and sighs. The second time he screws up simple addition, he slaps the ledger closed and returns to the living room.

“Winston, you wanna go out?”

Winston lifts his chin from his paws and wags. It could be happiness to see Jeremy or just ‘give me food, strange bald dog.’ Winston’s muzzle is getting grayer; Jeremy hadn’t noticed.

Jeremy’s thoughts are circling each other, threatening to spiral down into hating himself for the rest of the day. He has a lot of reasons, paths treaded down from years of running them. Jeff, not loving him. Misha, not able to tell him no. Zach and Wendy. Marisa. The hospital. It’s almost comforting by now, the universal constant of his brain. 

He’s better now. He’s better, goddamn it. Or at least he’s not _worse_.

He heads to the back porch, taking his coffee; Winston’s tags jingle as he follows agreeably. Jeremy kicks off his shoes and goes to stand in the green shaggy grass, barefoot. Stares up into the sullen sky.

The long summer is ending, finally. In June he’d been miserable; he wishes he could tell himself to wait, that Misha would show up and upend his life. That things aren’t easy and he’s still crazy but that life’s better now anyway, with Misha in it.

Winston whuffles around the yard, tail waving like a little flag. There’s container gardens of herbs around the yard now, another addition from Misha. Jeremy’s never had tomatoes growing next to his weed before. 

He wonders if Misha would like a bigger garden, or roses, or trellises, or whatever. He can’t give Misha most of what he deserves, but he can give him Home Depot.

Someone touches his arm. Jeremy flinches back to attention and finds Misha at his side. Misha, flushed and feral, almost no blue left in his eyes.

“Um,” Jeremy isn’t sure what asinine thing to add next. Ask him how it was? Ask him if he remembered to use lube? Anything to avoid the temptation to bury his face in Misha’s neck, to drag in the heady scent of Misha’s skin. But Misha is still giving him that wild-eyed look, so instead Jeremy asks, “You okay?”

For a second Jeremy thinks Misha’s going to shake his head, going to sign _never mind_. Misha’s throat works as he swallows. Then, hands flying, Misha says, _You said I should ask for what I want._

“Yeah.” Suddenly Jeremy’s heart is pounding. He closes his hands into fists like that can keep him quiet, like he’s the one who can’t talk without them. “I meant it.”

Misha takes a step closer, further into Jeremy’s space. _I want you to kiss me again._

“I can do that,” Jeremy says. 

_Not for practice. Not shotgunning. Not for my sake. Do you understand?_

“Yes,” Jeremy says. It should feel like stepping over some ethical threshold. Jeff would be fucking appalled. But yes is everything he says to Misha, over and over. A life full of yes. “I’m good with that.”

Misha looks into his eyes for a minute, strangely intense, then kisses him. It’s a little violent, something breaking under tension. Jeremy grabs Misha’s arms to keep both of them from staggering over, and Misha only puts his hands on Jeremy’s face to keep Jeremy where Misha wants him.

Jeremy isn’t going anywhere.

And then it’s over, hurricane Misha gentling out. Misha removes his hands and Jeremy wobbles, trying to catch his breath. After a too long moment, Jeremy remembers to stop holding Misha by the arms.

 _I want you to fuck me,_ Misha signs.

“Uh, wow,” Jeremy says, his brain still clearly deprived of oxygen. When shutters slam down on Misha’s eyes, Jeremy haltingly grabs at him again. “Wait, wait. Run that by me again. Are you sure?”

 _I want to fuck you. I’ve wanted to fuck you. I can conjugate more verbs._ Misha makes a frustrated gesture. _I’m not brainwashed. You’re sexy and I can’t use the stupid dildo because of my leg and I’d really like you to pop my cherry._

“Pop your _cherry_?” Jeremy asks, disbelieving and a little indignant. “Is this middle school?”

Misha blinks at him. _Should I buy you flowers first?_ When Jeremy laughs, because he can’t not, Misha shrugs. _It’s simple. You’re hot. I trust you._

Jeremy doesn’t. But then, there are much worse people out in the world; Jeremy knows because he’s fucked half of them. Thinking about Misha stumbling into someone like the guard makes Jeremy feel sick and murderous.

It’s sex. Jeremy is good at sex.

“Are you sure?” Jeremy asks Misha.

 _Are you sure you want me?_ Misha counters. 

“Come here and let me show you,” Jeremy says, and gathers Misha back into his arms.

The trip upstairs is a blur of trying to walk and maul each other at the same time. Jeremy’s shirt and the top button on his jeans end up pitched over the bannister into the front hall. It’s a miracle Misha’s cane doesn’t join it; the second time Misha fumbles it, they sheepishly move apart. Misha’s mouth is slick and bitten, and they’re both panting.

“God, I wish we had an elevator,” Jeremy says fervently. “You go first before we end up fucking on the stairs.”

Misha raises an eyebrow and gestures at the floor, inviting.

“We are not fucking on the stairs,” Jeremy says, half to Misha and half a reminder to himself. 

Misha sighs dramatically and goes up the stairs, leaving Jeremy to admire his ass in those sweatpants. 

When Jeremy catches up to him in the bedroom, Misha is already sitting on the edge of the bed. Misha skims off his t-shirt and tosses it on the floor to join his cane and shoes. Seeing Jeremy, Misha smiles slow and predatory. 

“I thought I was debauching you, here.” 

Shrugging, Misha wobbles his hand back and forth. _Mutual debauching. Why are you still wearing pants?_

“Protecting my virtue,” Jeremy deadpans. He peels his jeans and underwear at once, a slutty party trick complicated by the fact that Misha ripped his zipper right off the track. “You’re still wearing pants.”

 _I’m a cripple, I can do what I want,_ Misha signs, even as he’s squirming out of his pants. 

“Ouch, the cripple card.” Naked now, Jeremy sits on the edge of the bed beside Misha. Misha glances down at Jeremy’s dick, frankly speculative, and his smile widens. 

Jeremy curls an arm around Misha’s narrow waist, kisses his shoulder. After Misha started wearing yoga pants around the house, Jeremy thought he’d been desensitized to Misha’s body, but it’s different looking at miles of Misha’s bare skin. He wants to touch every inch. “You’re gorgeous. I should’ve told you that before. You’re totally out of my league.”

Misha’s still half hard from earlier, getting harder already as Jeremy drinks him in. Tilting his chin up, Misha signs, _my leg doesn’t bother you?_

“What? No.” Jeremy rubs his cheek against the curve of Misha’s throat. “You’re perfect.”

Misha makes a dismissive noise and turns his head to catch Jeremy’s mouth in another kiss. It’s slower and deeper, not the spark and combustion of the first. Less likely to burn out. Misha’s mouth is like a drug, like honey, like a thousand metaphors that can’t express what it’s like to unhurriedly taste him. By the time they come up for air, Misha’s shivering and wound tight. Admittedly, Jeremy’s not exactly feeling steady himself.

Leaning back a little, Misha signs, _move so I can lie down._

Reluctantly, Jeremy lets him go and moves back. Misha sprawls back on the sheets, seductive mostly because he isn’t trying to be. Misha’s cock is fully hard again, wet at the head with precome. 

Misha catches Jeremy looking and his breath hitches, dick bobbing against his stomach. _All right,_ Misha signs, _now come back. I need you to fuck me._

It’s like Misha grabs Jeremy by the spine and pulls him close. Not the smoothest dirty talk Jeremy’s ever heard, but damned effective. Jeremy crawls up the bed, stops at Misha’s hips because he’s afraid to get snagged in another kiss. Can’t leave Misha hanging much longer. One of them ought to keep their head.

Except, well. 

Jeremy touches the wet spot of precome on Misha’s stomach and licks it off his finger. Misha makes a punched-out noise.

Okay, _now_ Jeremy can keep his head.

“You want me to use the dildo?” Jeremy asks, his voice hoarse. When Misha shakes his head, eyes heavy on Jeremy’s face: “you want me to finger you?”

Misha nods a little impatiently (which is fair, considering he was hard when this started) and hands over the lube. 

Unwilling to take his eyes off Misha’s slack and panting mouth, Jeremy promptly drops the lube twice, then spills it on the sheets. Super smooth.

Jeremy slicks the lube between his fingers, warming it up. When some of it drops onto Misha’s thigh, the muscle jumps and Misha hitches in a breath.

“You all right? Still with me?”

Indignant and wild-eyed, Misha signs, _don’t stop._

Jeremy laughs, which chokes in his throat as Misha opens his legs. The insides of Misha’s thighs are vulnerable and pale. Jeremy wants to suck hickeys there like graffiti. Instead he touches the tight furl of Misha’s entrance, coaxing it to ease up.

Misha nudges Jeremy with his good knee. Signs, _more._

“You’re bossy,” Jeremy tells him.

The corner of Misha’s mouth quirks up. _You like it._

Yeah, like both of them didn’t know that. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

 _You won’t,_ Misha says. He rocks his hips back into Jeremy’s hand, trying to fuck himself open. Lets out a shuddering breath. _Jeremy._

Jeremy gives up; he knew he probably would as soon as Misha asked for more. Was he this stubborn when Jeff was trying to work Jeremy up to his dick? Probably yes. 

He makes himself stop thinking about Jeff. Not a good time. 

When Jeremy slips his first finger in, he’s trying like hell to be gentle. Misha is virgin tight, hot inside like fever. Jeremy thinks about easing his cock into Misha, a distracting heat lightning of a thought that makes him grind down into the mattress. 

He glances at Misha’s face, checking in. Misha has his eyes closed, an expression of deep concentration, like he’s listening to distant music. Probably trying to figure out if he likes this. It shouldn’t be as sexy as it is.

More lube, and it’s easier for Jeremy to get his finger inside, to coax Misha open. After a moment, Misha exhales a shivery breath and starts grinding back into Jeremy’s hand. 

“Jerk yourself off for me,” Jeremy’s voice sounds hushed in the quiet. “Show me what you like.”

Misha does it, his other hand still knotted in the sheets, and bites his lip. Makes that satisfied purring sound. Hearing it is as good as being jerked off, as far as Jeremy’s concerned, aural porn that makes up for all the dirty talk in the world.

Jeremy eases across Misha’s prostate, a glancing thing; Misha might not even have a taste for it, in which case Jeremy is more than happy to suck him off. But Misha shudders, fumbles the next stroke of his cock, too fast. Moans, grating and low.

“Yeah?” Jeremy asks, a little catch in his voice.

Misha nods, fumbling his other hand to Jeremy’s shoulder, to the back of Jeremy’s neck. Scruffs him, and fuck, Jeremy needs to stop grinding against the sheets. Fuck.

In case Jeremy didn’t catch that nod, Misha lets him go to sign, _More. More,_ when Jeremy crooks his finger in to rub Misha’s prostate, _give me two fingers._

Of course Misha’s already topping from the bottom. 

A little dizzy with the noises Misha’s making, like they’re being dragged from deep inside, Jeremy gives him a second finger. (He was maybe a little overzealous with the lube.) Misha puts one hand back in Jeremy’s hair, his fingers curved and trembling around Jeremy’s skull. Misha’s other hand is wet with precome now, obscene slick noises as he jerks off. Jeremy can smell how close he is.

“That’s good,” Jeremy says, barely aware of what he’s saying because it’s less important than making Misha come on his fingers, less important than how much Jeremy wants to burn this into his own brain. “You’re so beautiful. You’re so fucking tight I can barely get my fingers in you. You can come for me, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

Misha drags in one sharp breath and comes, quiet, clutching at Jeremy like they could get any closer. His come stripes up his belly in long jolts, and Jeremy shudders with how much he wants to lick it off.

Before the last few tremors have even passed, Misha starts trying to pull Jeremy up. Jeremy goes, mouth open to ask Misha if he’s okay, if Jeremy broke him; his soothing noises break off in a groan as Misha grinds against him.

 _Rub off on me,_ Misha signs. _I want you to come on me._

And Jeremy drags Misha close, grinding against Misha’s belly, his dick sliding in Misha’s come. It doesn’t take very long before Jeremy gets off, with Misha’s nails digging into his shoulders and Misha’s ragged gasps in his ear.

After a while, sweat and come cooling on their skins, Misha cradles Jeremy’s face in his hands. Misha peers at him, touching Jeremy’s mouth with his finger whenever Jeremy tries to say something smart-assed. It feels like Jeremy’s back on his knees at Indira’s, like Misha can see through his skin. Like Misha sees something in Jeremy that’s halfway worth seeing.

Misha lets him go and signs, _thank you._

“Any time,” Jeremy says. 

Misha hums. _How about tomorrow?_

“Sure,” Jeremy says, too startled to be defensive. 

_Good,_ Misha says, and grins. _I have a list._


End file.
